The World's First Year at Hogwarts
by AshesOnTheWind
Summary: When England messes up yet another spell, Norway decides he's had enough; time for England to learn how to use magic properly. The rest of the world might as well tag along too. For Harry Potter, his first year at Hogwarts is going to get a lot weirder than it was already threatening to be.
1. How To Mess Up an Entire World Meeting

Prologue: How To Mess Up an Entire World Meeting

* * *

><p>World Meetings were boring. That was a fact well-known and accepted by all who had ever attended them. Oh sure, Germany would try and keep order and knew it was his duty to try his hardest to make sure it all ran smoothly. Yeah, England was a workaholic who piled himself with paperwork he didn't need in order to avoid facing his other problems. But the rest of the world knew that any important issues would be taken care of by their bosses and most of the time used the gatherings as just that; a time to socialise with nations they wouldn't normally talk with, to meet their friends and generally have fun. For some countries, it was an opportunity to piss off the people they would not normally be able to piss off.<p>

Though as these countries were France and America, they usually found a way.

Their current target was England. In America's case, he was trying to have a decent conversation and failing because of his lack of social graces. In France's...he was bored.

"Would you two just shut up and go away? I am trying to finish something."

"Hey, England, what are you actually doing? Is it that boring paperwork again?"

England sighed; America's voice was really annoying.

"Yes," he said tersely. The paperwork in question was something to do with his wizarding community. Other than Romania and possibly Norway, England was the most in-touch with the magical side of himself; most of the world knew it was there and didn't really care, but others – like America – denied its existence completely.

"What kinda paperwork?"

"Approving or disapproving job applications for Hogwarts. They need a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

"Dude, you need to stop with that whole magic stuff. You're just deluding yourself, really."

"Actually," England said while ticking a box – really, this Quirinus Quirrell had the most ridiculous name, but he was probably the best of the lot, "You're the one who's deluding yourself. You're cutting off a very important part of yourself by ignoring your magical community. Though if you ever do accept it, I'd recommend doing away with Quodpot. Stupid game, never understood the point of it. Not a patch on Quidditch."

"What? I don't have a magical community. And what the heck is a Quodpot?"

"You do have a magical community!"

"I don't, because magic doesn't exist!"

"Does too!"

"Does not!"

England growled, throwing aside his paperwork and rumbling around in his pocket for the piece of chalk he always kept on him. England had never had his siblings' ability for wandwork, and usually relied on archaic forms of Dark Magic that even he had never properly understood.

"Fine then," he sneered, "You don't believe magic exists. I'll show you. You'll have to believe me then!"

America eyed England warily, "Dude, are you okay?"

"Okay? Of course I'm okay! I'm peachy!"

England began scribbling on the floor, drawing pentagrams etched with complex symbols. This was a spell he'd only ever used once, and even then it hadn't turned out great. This time it would work, though. He knew it. And America had it coming anyway if it didn't.

As England worked, a ball of white light began to form above the pentagram, pulsing with an eerie rhythm. America laughed it off as tricks, but unease was clearly beginning to form on his face. At this England smirked; he was going to show that up-jumped arrogant Yank once and for all.

His concentration wavered when Romania hurried over muttering, "No no no, that's not how you do it."

The other nation licked his finger and smudged the chalk lines. England yelped as the ball shuddered, wobbling rather alarmingly. Then it exploded, flying across the room like an over-excited jelly. The light enveloped everybody present – the display had attracted a rather large amount of onlookers – throwing them against walls and ceilings alike.

Romania got to his feet, groaning, "What kind of spell did you use, England?"

England shook his head, wondering why he felt so much smaller, "A..." he stopped. His voice was weirdly high-pitched, "I was trying to curse America's hair."

"Oh! I thought you were trying a de-aging spell, that's why...why is my voice so high?"

England looked down at himself, "...Fuck!"

All around the conference centre, several countries – including the ones that had snuck in – were rising to their feet, muttering angrily.

"Oh my god, West! You look adorable!" Prussia yelled, before catching a glimpse of his own body and shrieking, "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME YOU BRITISH ASSHOLE? YOU CAN'T DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS TO THE AWESOME PRUSSIA!"

England sighed wearily, before looking at the room in general.

"Shit!" he yelled, "Romania! What the fuck did you do?"

"What? I didn't do anything, you were doing the spell wrong anyway! I knew it looked like a de-aging curse."

"It wasn't meant to be one!"

The door to the room opened and two of the people that were not top of England's 'who I want to see right now' list stepped in. Norway took one look at his brother and his normally expressionless face twisted into anger. Hungary spotted Austria looking strangely small and whipped out her frying pan.

"England!" Norway yelled, "What did you do?"

"I didn't mean to do anything!" England tried to make himself heard over the hubbub that had broken out when everybody in the room realised that they looked about eleven, "Romania messed up the pentagram!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Honestly," Norway sighed, "A spell like that is supposed to decrease your physical age, not your mental one. Really, England, how is it even possible to mess up this badly?"

"I didn't mess up!"

"You did," Hungary told him firmly, "Isn't there some kind of magic school at your place where kids learn all this stuff?"

"Well, now that you mention it..." England began.

"Magic school?" a familiarly annoying and American voice chirped, "That sounds so cool! I mean, if magic exists then I totally want to go to school and learn all about it."

"Yeah," Prussia chipped in, "Magic school sounds almost as awesome as me! Where can we sign up?"

And that was how a good portion of the world managed to enrol themselves in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

><p><em>Ahhh, effing plot bunnies annoying me left, right and centre. I really wanted to write this one though, starting from the first book – this isn't meant to begin as anything except a light-hearted venture to teach England magic because the whole world except Dumbledore thinks Voldy's gone for good. And Dumbledore won't recognise England because he has no idea who England is – the only person who should is Fudge. Anyway, I'll stop rambling. This is just a short prologue to get this out there, the real story should start soon and Harry will make his appearance next chapter. Reviews, follows and favourites are all very much appreciated, but enjoy the story regardless.<em>


	2. How To Blow Up an Alley

**_Edit:_**_ I have added in an extra scene in the second part. If you are reading this for the first time, then you can ignore this message completely. If you are rereading this for whatever reason, then you don't have to reread the chapter, you can skip or just ignore it as it adds little to the actual plot, I just felt the chapter was incomplete without it._

* * *

><p><span>Chapter One: How To Blow Up an Alley<span>

* * *

><p>Diagon Alley was an experience that could only be described as awesome. Totally amazingly and magically awesome. Even if it was in England. America should have known that it was impossible for an entire country to be that grumpy and miserable twenty-four seven. It just seemed that all the cool British people were part of this secret magic club thing. America was definitely going to find out everything was there was to know about his wizard-people-things, because if this was how awesome British ones were, imagine how amazing the Americans would be! He'd do it as soon as he got home. And as soon as England made sure he didn't look like an eleven-year-old and didn't sound like he was two.<p>

America could see England up ahead. As the only person who had any idea where to go, he was picking his way through the crowds with the sort of confidence that comes when you are the only member of your group who knows where you are. Norway and Romania had some idea of the geography of the area, but the former had dragged off a very annoyed group of pre-pubescent Nordics to look at cauldrons and the latter was busy squabbling with Hungary. That left America stuck with England.

America had pestered England so much that the former empire had finally caved and allowed himself to be dragged off to look at wands. That was the plan, anyway. But as America had almost managed to get them lost down some really creepy side alley with a name to do with knocking or turning or something, it had been decided that England would be doing the dragging. And so he had dragged America to get clothes. Not wands, not cool books that told you how to curse people, _clothes_. They were sort of magical clothes though, so it was almost okay.

The magic clothes were kind of weird, to be honest. They were these strange robe type things that America didn't think anybody in all of history had worn ever. Except maybe France, because according to England he had looked like a girl half the time he was a kid. America had actually worn a smock for the first half of his life, but at least everyone had still assumed he was male. The robes completely undercut that. He didn't really want to wear them, but he needed them for magic school, so he made the sacrifice. That was what heroes did, anyway.

There were two other boys already in the shop, Madame Malkin's or something like that. One was small and dark-haired and looked fairly ordinary except for a really cool scar on his head in the shape of a lightning bolt. The other one had an incredibly pointy face and hair almost as pale as Prussia's. He looked sort of like a ferret.

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" Ferret-boy drawled, "They're just not the same -"

"Hey, what other sort do you mean?" America asked eagerly. If he was going to go ahead with this whole magic school thing he might as well learn as much as he could beforehand.

Ferret-boy looked at America, took in the other boy's appearance and curled his lip, almost subconsciously.

"Well, if you don't know, you're obviously one of them."

"One of who? Sheesh, man, you're keeping me in suspense here."

"He means muggle-borns," England said with an exasperated sigh, "As in wizards or witches who have two completely muggle parents. You know muggles, people without magic."

America frowned, processing that information, "Muggle-borns...I'm a muggle-born, right, Arthur? That's what it's called, isn't it?"

"Yes, you are."

It had been decided that to avoid awkward questions about who their parents were if it was revealed they were supposedly magical, which in a community such as this one where everyone knew everyone would be detrimental to their chances of remaining 'undercover', so to speak, all the countries would present themselves as muggle-borns. It also meant that their complete ignorance when it came to most – or all, in America's case – magical things would not seem strange. The exceptions were England and Romania, who at the other end of the spectrum knew too much that being muggle-born would be suspicious.

"Muggle-borns?" Ferret-boy sneered, "And I suppose you've come to pretend you're magical, or something."

"Just me, Arthur's mum was a witch or something," America said cheerfully, jerking a thumb at England. The other country was looking at Ferret-boy with cool disinterest, as though he was a garden animal or something similar.

"Oh," Ferret-boy shrugged, before saying rudely, "What do you mean by 'was' a witch?"

"Well that would be because she's dead," England said off-hand. It was hard to feign sadness over someone you had barely known centuries and centuries beforehand. America knew that England only remembered Britannia very faintly and didn't really care either way. Ferret-boy's lip curled up ever more, so much so that it was hardly possible to see the top of it at all.

"Oh. So's his parents."

The other boy, who until this moment had remained silent as the squat witch who ran the shop pinned and magically adjusted his robes, looked up and smiled at the other two when Ferret-boy motioned carelessly to him. His eyes were very green.

"You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" England said softly.

"Oh...um, yeah," the boy, or Harry, said. England tilted his head, sizing Harry up.

"Thank you."

"Uh...no problem?"

America shrugged, "I'm Alfred F Jones! He's Arthur."

"Kirkland," England added, "Arthur Kirkland. You're a Malfoy, aren't you?"

The last part was addressed to Ferret-boy, who smiled without meaning it and nodded.

"Draco Malfoy," he said, as though it was some sort of great honour and that Harry, America and England should all bow down before him.

"Charmed," England replied with distaste. America got the feeling that being a Malfoy was bad news, whatever this one said.

"That's you two done, then!" the squat witch said, clapping her hands to shoo Harry and Malfoy off the stools they had been standing on. Harry gave the two a quick wave as he left the shop to join an immensely tall man with a wild beard standing outside the shop. America waved back happily.

"Hogwarts for you too, dears?" the witch asked. America nodded and stood up to get himself measured. He was pleased to see that the spell or whatever it was that had left him looking eleven hadn't taken away the fact that he was still taller than England. And Canada! He was taller than Canada! Nobody else had noticed though, on account of the fact that they couldn't see Canada well enough to actually compare the two. Oh well. At least they saw America. It would probably suck loads if you couldn't see the hero, after all.

* * *

><p>Norway liked Diagon Alley. It was surprising, as the types of places he usually liked tended to be more peaceful, or at least further away from wherever Denmark happened to be at the time. But Diagon Alley was...different. It was bright and bustling and everybody was incredibly welcoming. The shops sold everything you could possibly want and it was always nice to only need to go on one trip and buy everything while you were there.<p>

"Norge, hey Norge, can I get a broomstick?"

"No, _Magnus_," Norway said as though Denmark's human name was an insult, "You can't get a broomstick. First years aren't allowed broomsticks."

"But Nooorwaaaay! And besides, I'm not technically a first year."

"Who looks eleven and who looks like an adult?"

"Shut up, Norge!"

"You sh't up, Denm'rk," Sweden muttered. Now that he was actually annoyed he looked positively terrifying, glowering at everyone and everything except Finland, who he just glared at without meaning much. Finland himself was hopping around excitedly, looking every which way into every which window, eagerly drinking in all the new sights and sounds and smells. Norway had of course seen it all before, but sometimes he forgot that his friends didn't know much about the magic in their lives. It was sad, how they all refused to see what was right in front of them. There was so much for them to discover and the only reason they had was because those two idiots had messed up a spell. Honestly, why did_ they_ have to be the only two Norway could talk to about magic?

He looked fondly at Iceland, looking at everything and saying nothing. Sometimes he had wondered whether or not to tell the younger country a bit about the whole thing, but Iceland's magical community was basically non-existent, so there was really no point.

"Hey, Norge?" Iceland said, "Can we get wands now?"

"Yeah, I guess so. It's just down here."

They headed down to Ollivanders, passing several different brightly coloured storefronts along the way. As they entered a doorbell rang and from the shadowy depths of the shelves emerged a tall, pale figure. Even Norway felt as though Mr Ollivander's eyes were staring unnervingly into his mind.

"Ah, you'll be needing your wands," Ollivander said softly, "Well then, who's first?"

"I'll go!" Denmark yelled, jumping forward. Ollivander looked at him softly, before moving forward and sliding a long, thin box from the towering stacks of wands.

"Try this," he said, "Ebony and phoenix feather, fourteen inches, pliable."

Denmark took hold of the wand and waved it around madly, cackling slightly. Norway sighed and only just managed to push Iceland's head down in time to dodge what looked unfortunately like an arrow. Ollivander gulped, snatching the wand back from Denmark and pressing another into his hands.

"Blackthorn and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches, springy."

Denmark took this one too, and whooped as a spray of beer started flowing from the end. Norway groaned; he should have known it would have been something like that. Finland was harder, the pile of used wands growing to the size of a small mountain before Ollivander gave him the right one.

"Elm and phoenix feather, twelve inches, unyielding."

As Finland shuffled over to stand beside Denmark, Iceland took the proffered wand and almost blew up the shop. Ollivander sucked in a breath through his teeth, spending an awful lot of time perusing the shelves.

"Try...this one! Hawthorn and unicorn core, ten and a half inches, slightly pliable."

Iceland took it with trepidation, only calming down once the sound of puffins – it had to be puffins, because what other bird's call would Iceland conjure unknowingly? – filled the room. Then it was only Sweden, who was sorted fairly quickly.

Once Sweden had been paired with a wand of 'fir and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches, unbending', the Nordics set off towards Flourish and Blotts. Denmark had been loath to go to somewhere that to his knowledge only sold books, but relented when Norway told him that he could find information on how to curse people there. It was in this way that the real fireworks started.

Denmark being Denmark, he made his way to the very end of the bookshop to where the most advanced books filled with the most evil curses were kept. Surveying the shelves, he had then picked out the one entitled _Moste Evile and Foule Curses for the Subjugatione and Bewitchmente of any Enemies_. It was a book that Norway was initially surprised he was able to read, given that it was written in some sort of ancient English and in hand-writing almost impossible to read.

"Hey, Lukas! What's this one do?"

Norway turned around in time to realise that Denmark could not, in fact, read the spells inside. The ensuing explosion wiped out several nearby shops and an ice-cream parlour.

Denmark was laughing.

"It was just a spell, it was pretty funny anyway!"

Norway resisted the urge to hit him.

"Den. Leaving. Now. Ice, grab Sve and Fin let's go."

Iceland rolled his eyes but didn't say anything as Norway grabbed his hand and dragged the rest of the Nordics out of the shop. Of course it had been too much to hope that they could go an entire day without Denmark messing up something. Of course he had to ruin several shopfronts and then be entirely unrepentant. Norway sighed, and yanked the rest of the group forward.

"We're going to apparate," he said calmly, "Everyone make sure you're touching my hand."

Norway felt five sets of remarkably smaller fingers close around his wrists. _Destination, determination, deliberation_, he thought, before a 'crack!' echoed throughout the alley and the five disappeared. All that was left in Diagon Alley was an angry shopkeeper, shaking his fist at the sky.

* * *

><p><em>I'm glad I finally got this up – sometimes I wish fanfiction would have a more intuitive system for updating, the whole uploading documents thing takes forever. But anyway, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed or followed! <strong>CanadaFans<strong>: thank you very much! I will try and include Canada, but ironically he's the only character I consistently forget to include in fanfiction, **Guest 1:** thank you! I'm glad you think it's a logical situation; ones where they're younger for no reason are very annoying. Granted, my sequence of events is a bit gratuitous, but I hope it sort of makes sense, **Guest 2:** thank you so much! You are amazing for that wonderful review._


	3. How To Make New Friends

Chapter Two: How To Make New Friends

* * *

><p>Harry couldn't stop the grin from spreading over his face as he took in Platform Nine and Three-quarters. The ceiling soared high above him and there was a friendly hum reverberating around the station. Occasionally the buzz of chatter and goodbyes would be punctuated by the hoot of an owl or the groan of a fourth year who had forgotten their broomstick. Harry could hardly take it all in. Most amazing of all, though, was the magnificent scarlet steam engine that stood beside the platform, belching smoke. It gleamed in the sunlight streaming down from above, casting a glare that almost blinded Harry with its ferocity.<p>

He blinked and looked around. The red-haired woman who had helped him through the barrier onto the platform was still fussing over her children. The twins looked like they were annoying her. A little further off a young woman with long brown hair was glaring fiercely at a boy around Harry's age. The boy had a shock of messy white hair and fierce red eyes; Harry wondered whether he was an albino or something. He was glaring right back at the woman and saying something angrily. Intrigued, Harry dragged his trunk a little closer; he knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, but wizards and witches were so interesting!

"Gilbert," the woman hissed fiercely, "_Behave! _I'll be seeing you at school – no, don't ask why because I won't tell you – and if I hear one thing about you messing about or bugging Roderich too much I will kill you."

"Relax, Liz, I'll be really good. I mean, not a suck-up like Arthur or a wimp like Feli, and I'll have to have some fun because it is school, but I'll be awesome!"

"Don't call me Liz," the woman said angrily. There was a dark-haired boy with glasses beside the two, who sighed.

"I'm sure it will be fine, Elizaveta. I don't think Gilbert has the brain power to annoy me successfully for very long."

"Hey!" Gilbert yelled, "I am really smart, and I _always _manage to annoy you!"

"Gilbert!" Elizaveta growled, "I should have known better than to trust you to go to school, you're far too immature."

"Am not!"

"I think Elizaveta's point has just been proven," the other boy said smugly. Harry noticed that he had an accent that was sort of like a posh German, unlike Gilbert's. His was rougher and thicker – German though, definitely. Elizaveta's was some type of European, maybe Romanian or Hungarian or something.

"Oh, really, Roddy? _Gott, _at least I won't mooch off West all the while I'm there."

"Gilbert, do not call me Roddy! I do not mooch off your brother, anyway, and I never have. And besides, I'm not the one who lives in his basement." Roderich said haughtily. Gilbert glared at him. Elizaveta laughed.

"Exactly, Gilbert. Now remember what I said, because I mean it," she said.

"_Ja, ja_," Gilbert moaned, before mimicking Elizaveta's voice in an unflattering falsetto, "'Don't annoy Roderich, Gilbert, or I'll kill you'. Whatever."

"Exactly," Eilzaveta said smugly, "Don't annoy Roderich."

"I can look after myself, you know," Roderich huffed, "I'm _older _than you."

Gilbert cackled. Harry noticed that his laugh was very annoying, "Kesese, Roddy, but who actually looks younger?"

"You," Elizaveta told him firmly, "Well, I'll see you two in school. Don't annoy each other too much – I hope to God you're in different houses."

"I could hardly end up in the same house as him!" Roderich said, affronted.

"Don't be too sure, Roddy," Gilbert smirked, "Hey, Liz," – "Do not call me Liz!" – "Hey, Liz, stop treating us like we're kids anyway, we're not actually."

"Again, you look like it, and act like it," Elizaveta said, "And now you two really do need to get onto the train, so hurry up. Don't get into trouble or I'll kill you, Gilbert."

Gilbert sighed and hurried off, dragging Roderich with him, "Come on Roddy, we don't want you to get lost!"

Elizaveta glared at Gilbert's back, shook her head, and wandered off in the direction of the front of the train. Harry was dumbstruck. What did Roderich mean that he was older than Elizaveta, and why had Gilbert said that they weren't actually kids? They certainly looked like some to Harry; he knew he was short for his age, but while neither Gilbert nor Roderich was particularly tiny they couldn't have been any older than twelve at the most. Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of all this weird magic stuff. It had to be something to do with magic; Harry was going to a magic school, after all!

He started to drag his trunk towards the train. Putting it onto the locomotive proved harder than Harry had first thought. He tried to lift it onto the floor of the train, but it slipped and hit his toe. Harry tried shifting the weight and groaned as the trunk fell back where it started, lying slightly pathetically beside the shining red engine.

"Need a hand?" said a loud voice at Harry's side.

Harry whirled around to see Alfred from Madame Malkin's grinning at him. The smile threw so much light in Harry's direction he could hardly see. Alfred bent down and lifted up Harry's trunk as though it weighed nothing. He deposited it on the train, wiping his hands against each other with a self-satisfied air.

"There," he said. Harry gaped at him, unable to say anything. There was an exasperated sigh from behind them, which turned out to have come from the other boy Harry had seen in the shop. Arthur, Harry thought his name was. Harry remembered feeling relieved that he wouldn't be the only person slightly shorter than average.

"Stop showing off," Arthur huffed, his enormous eyebrows drawn into a rather impressive frown.

"I'm not showing off"" Alfred protested, "I was helping Harry! You're such a killjoy, Arthur."

Arthur sighed again, before stomping angrily into the train.

"Sorry about him," Alfred said apologetically, "He's been pissed off at everybody ever since he had to go to school. He didn't want to."

"What?" Harry exclaimed, "But it's magic school, why on Earth wouldn't he want to come?"

"I know right? But he said he was busy, and now he has to deal with everything through his brother, who's reeeally annoyed that he has to..." Alfred came to an abrupt stop as though he had said something he shouldn't have.

"Do what?" Harry asked.

"Uhh...stufff," Alfred said lamely, "Well, got to go, Arthur will probably explode if I keep him waiting anymore and I want to find Kiku. Nice seeing you, Harry."

And then he was gone, hopping onto the train after Arthur. Harry could only stare. The conductor's shrill whistle shook him out of it, and he hopped onto the train. There were very few completely empty compartments. As he strolled along, he spotted Arthur yelling at Alfred, who was laughing back at him. There was a shorter boy with dark hair sitting beside them both, looking slightly uncomfortable as his rowdier companions fought. Harry passed the compartment just as another first year boy with shoulder-length blonde hair and a smirk entered. Arthur switched to yelling at the new boy, and Alfred took the opportunity to give Harry a wave.

Harry saw four boys, all with varying states of light-coloured hair. They all looked about Harry's own age, but at least one of them was definitely more immature than the others. Harry laughed as a taller, expressionless young man started to berate the boy for breaking a window with his wand.

After much searching, Harry finally found an empty compartment. He stepped in and sat down gratefully, yelping as he noticed somebody else in the corner.

"I – I'm sorry," he stammered, "I thought this one was empty."

"No, it's okay, eh," the other boy said. He looked about Harry's age, with wavy blonde hair and an accent like a softer version of Alfred's, "You can stay."

"Oh, uh, thanks," Harry said awkwardly, taking a seat in one of the corners, "I'm Harry Potter."

"Matthew Williams," the other boy replied, "Arthur's told me about you; you're the one who defeated Voldemort, huh?"

"You say his name too?" Harry asked, "Everyone always shudders when I say it but I don't know why."

"Yeah, they do for me too. I guess it's understandable, eh, but I haven't been a proper part of the wizarding world for very long and I've never got into the habit of all this You-Know-Who stuff."

Harry nodded in agreement, "It's weird, isn't it? The wizard stuff. I didn't know about it until about a month ago, my aunt and uncle were really annoyed. But I suppose I've always been able to do strange things, I just never realised that it was actually magic."

"Me neither," Matthew agreed, "My older brother, Arthur – well he's not really my older brother anymore, and it's really very complicated, eh – but anyway, he told me and my twin, Alfred, about the magic, but we never really believed him."

"Alfred? Alfred like Alfred F Jones? American?"

Matthew laughed, "That's him. He and Arthur and everyone asked me if I wanted to join them in their compartment, but I didn't feel like talking to all of them. Besides, they were with their friend Kiku and I don't really know him very well."

"At least you know some people," Harry said, "I don't know any at all."

"I know quite a few, but not very well, eh. It's weird, we all sort of received our letters at the same time but never really knew...there's Gilbert, and, um, Katyusha and -"

"Gilbert? There was this guy on the train station called Gilbert, he was being yelled at by this woman called...Elizaveta? And annoying another boy called Roderich."

"Yeah, Gilbert does that. Elizaveta can't really stand him and neither can Roderich, but they stick around. Roderich's friends with his brother. Elizaveta's actually going to teach at Hogwarts, I think."

Matthew had a very quiet voice. Harry could see why he didn't want to spend all of his time in the compartment with his brother – or brothers, was it? Matthew had said it was complicated. Alfred was so loud and overbearing and Arthur's excessive grumpiness was enough to make him stand out. Matthew wasn't like that, and Harry could easily imagine him being ignored by the rest of his family.

At that, there was a knock on the door, and a face topped with incredibly red hair poked around the door. Harry recognised him as one of the children of the woman who helped him through the barrier's children. They all had that same bright hair and freckles.

"Anyone sitting there?" the boy asked, pointing at a seat beside Matthew, "Everywhere else is full."

"No, it's free," Harry said hurriedly, moving Hedwig's cage so that the boy could sit down.

"I'm Ron," the boy told Harry and Matthew, "Ron Weasley."

"Harry Potter."

Ron's jaw fell open, his eyes widening to an extent that was almost comical.

"Are you really?" he asked in amazement, "I mean...seriously?"

"Uhh...yeah," Harry replied nervously, "This is Matthew, by the way. Matthew Williams."

"Hi," Ron said to Matthew, before his attention snapped back to Harry, "Do you actually have it? The scar?"

"Oh, um, yes."

Harry pulled back his untidy fringe to reveal the lightning-shaped mark, still as fresh as ever. Ron's eyes bulged so far out of his head Harry thought they might just pop out completely. Matthew smiled softly.

"Wow," Ron breathed, "Just...wow. D'you remember anything? You know, from when it happened."

"Well...nothing much," Harry began awkwardly, noticing how Ron's face fell almost immediately, "Except this green light and this weird laugh."

"Wow," Ron said again. He turned to Matthew, "What did you say your name was again?"

"Matthew Williams."

"Oh," Ron said, "Sorry."

Matthew smiled at him, "That's okay, I'm used to it. People usually think I'm my brother."

Ron nodded, "People always compare me to mine. I've got five older ones."

"I've got a twin brother, and there are two people who are sort of my older brothers, but...well, it's complicated."

"Family always is," Ron said sympathetically, "Hey, what's your brother like?"

"Well...he's a bit of an asshole, to be honest," Matthew admitted, "But he's nice too."

Harry nodded. From what he had seen of Alfred, the other boy had the potential to be very annoying. He wouldn't know anything about it, but he supposed being brothers with him would probably be worse.

That was how Harry spent his train journey, listening to Matthew and Ron moan about their brothers and sharing the Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans he bought when the food trolley came around. As the trip came to an end and the train drew to a halt, Harry spotted a familiarly huge figure with the same wild, bushy beard standing on the platform. The combination of new friends and friends that were old in comparison helped settle the growing knot in his stomach. The train stopped and Harry felt his heart leap into his throat. They were at Hogwarts.

* * *

><p><em>An entire 2000+ word chapter without any linebreaks or POV changes, lovely. Thank you again for all the lovely reviews! By the way, I added a little bit to the last chapter because I realised it was slightly awkward; it involves the Nordics getting their wands – the wands themselves mightn't be completely right but they're the woods and cores and stuff that jumped out at me – but that's it and it isn't really important if you don't want to get back. Next chapter is the Sorting, which I am VERY excited for :D. The only problem is that I'm a little stuck on some of the characters, namely Austria – he's too lazy to be a Slytherin, but he's also not really curious enough for a Ravenclaw and he's neither of the other two – Canada, who could be Gryffindor, Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw and Lithuania, Switzerland and France, who I have no idea about. I have places for all of them anyway, sort of, but if any of you have any ideas that would be really helpful! <em>

_**CanadaFans: **__Agreed! It's technically canon that he's sort of a ghost, but I always think that the canon sometimes bends reality a little more than I want in my fanfictions and this is one of the ways, __**gAmZeE mAkArA: **__he's Denmark. I've gone back and made that more obvious than it was, so thanks for pointing that out._


	4. How To Make a Mortal Enemy

_**Note:**__ There are some countries whose houses might seem a little weird, so if you want my explanation for it just ask and I'll reply – I can't be bothered to put it in any notes at the end – and if you're a guest I'll make a quick note next chapter if necessary._

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Three: How To Make a Mortal Enemy<span>

* * *

><p>Despite the countless times England had been there, Hogwarts never failed in kindling the same warm glow inside the pit of his stomach. It was a national institution as much as Big Ben or the Tower of London, at least amongst the wizarding community, and pride was the one thing Hogwarts instilled in him the most. Scotland would glare at him and tell England that it was in his house, and his to be proud of and that 'bratty Southeners' could bloody well fuck off. England didn't care; he was a part of Britain and therefore he could be just as pleased with it as any of his brothers.<p>

He had never approached it from the lake as a student before, though. As the castle rose out of the lake, the ground so dark it merged with the water, the sight quite literally took England's breath away. Almost all of the windows were lit up like beacons, reflecting onto the water in a glittering golden tapestry that rippled in the wind.

England would be lying if he said he wasn't secretly triumphant when America let a gasp. He could see that even France was impressed; there was a grudging respect on the other nation's face that grew the closer they got to the castle. England chuckled to himself; the other two had spent a good portion of the train journey – along with Spain, when he had come along to check how France was doing – laughing about how awful they thought Hogwarts would be based on its name and how they viewed England, so it was good to finally see the shock and awe on their stupid faces.

In a boat at the front England could see Harry Potter gaze up at the school in wonderment. Beside him was a red-haired boy he recognised as a Weasley and, for some reason, Canada. It had occurred to him once during the trip to check on where his other sort-of-but-not-really adoptive younger brother was, but the thought had vanished as soon as it came. Canada was not really the sort of person you fussed over, disappearing from your brain as soon as he disappeared from your sight. England was glad to see he'd found friends away from America. It would do the boy good.

The boats reached the shore with a soft _'clunk'_, bouncing off the edge. England leaped out and stood shivering on the grass. It was a cold night, a chill wind sweeping across the grounds. France stood beside him, glaring at England as his teeth chattered.

"Your country is far too cold," he moaned.

"Deal with it, frog," England retorted, "You're here for the year."

"_Mon dieu, _why did I agree to this again?"

"Because it's magic school, France!" America said. His grin was so wide he looked slightly like he was eating his face, "Oh my God, we're finally here, this is so cool!"

England laughed, using it to keep him warm as they trudged up the lawn to the doors of the castle itself. Hagrid rapped on the wood with one massive fist, the sound booming through the walls. When the door was opened, England saw a woman with a very stern face looking down at them all. Professor McGonagall. He grumbled a bit at the fact that she was looking down on him, but then realised that even if he was his normal height there wouldn't be much difference between the two of them. That thought did nothing to make him feel any better.

To his surprise, England felt nerves bubbling up inside him. He'd been to Hogwarts before, but always in a consulting capacity, or to talk to Dumbledore or one of the other headmasters and headmistresses, or to see the students or something. This was his first time walking through the doors as someone there to learn and it was slightly terrifying. There was also the fact that though the de-aging spell had altered his appearance slightly, some of the old members of the Order of the Phoenix, with whom he had fought against Voldemort the last time, might recognise him.

England ducked his head as Professor McGonagall's gaze swept over them all, hoping he was imagining things when he felt it rest on him a little longer than any of the others. Her speech was typically short and to-the-point and by the end of it even America looked a little worried.

"What's this test thing we have to do?" he hissed at England, "I don't know any magic!"

"Relax," England whispered back, "It involves a hat, there's nothing dangerous about it."

America didn't look reassured and his face fell even more as they turned a corner. England looked up and saw about twenty pearly white figures drifting through the air towards them.

"AAAH! G-GHOSTS, ARTHUR SAVE ME!"

America tried to hide his taller frame behind England's, with no success. England and France both laughed.

"Come on Alfred," England said, "It's only ghosts."

"That's the point! Why didn't you tell me there would be ghosts here, I can't punch ghosts, oh my God Arthur we're going to die!"

America buried his face in England's shoulder. The ghosts were looking at them with amusement and England began to feel slightly uncomfortable. Though that might have been because America was really heavy and his entire weight was on one of England's arms.

"New students!" a short, plump ghost said, "About to be sorted, I suppose?"

A couple of nods bobbed around the group, the students too shocked to speak for themselves.

"AAAAAH!" America screamed again, "They talk!"

"Well of course we do!" a ghost with a rather ridiculous ruff said, "What did you think we did?"

America couldn't answer, staring at the ghost with nothing short of absolute terror. There was a snigger from behind them. England turned around to see Draco Malfoy, who was looking at America with contempt.

"Told you they shouldn't let people like him in," Malfoy snorted, "See what happens?"

"Like you're any better," England retorted, "If there's anyone they shouldn't let in it's spineless gits like you."

Malfoy's pale cheeks began to look slightly pink, but he managed to gather himself enough to sneer down his nose at England.

"You'd better watch, Kirkland. My father's very high up in the ministry, and he won't like it when I tell him what you said to me."

England barked a laugh, "If you can't take me calling you a spineless git then you're not ready for school, Malfoy. Besides, if you're hoping to get into Slytherin like the rest of your family, you'd better learn how to get by without your precious daddy to lean on."

Malfoy flushed even more scarlet, but Professor McGonagall returned to lead the students into the hall before he could say anything.

The Great Hall was just as resplendent as England was expecting, decked out in all the splendour of Hogwarts. Above their heads the ceiling was dark and imposing and spangled with stars. Thousands upon thousands of floating candles provided the light, bouncing off the golden plates and goblets and shining through the silvery ghosts. The rest of the school was already there, upper years seated at four long house tables, teachers up at the High Table. Dumbledore was in the centre as usual. England frowned when he spotted two people who look suspiciously like Norway and Hungary looking down at the assembled students. If either of them had planned to apply for the teaching positions then they hadn't told him, and – of course. All mail after the accident had been sent through Scotland, and if the two other nations had sent their applications through him then he wouldn't have bothered to tell England, who was feeling rather miffed about the whole thing now.

Professor McGonagall set down the four-legged stool she had been carrying and placed the Sorting Hat on top of it. As soon as it had been put down, the Hat opened its brim and began to speak. America gasped, and there were similar murmurs of shock from the crowd of first years, countries included. England smirked. Professor McGonagall opened her scroll of names – which was particularly long this year given the influx of nations masquerading as pupils – and began to read.

"Arlovskaya, Natalia!"

Belarus stalked up to the Hat and jammed it on her head. It took a while to decide and England could see her face getting even more frustrated by the minute, but then it opened its brim and yelled, "SLYTHERIN!"

"Arnesen, Magnus!"

Denmark grinned as he put on the Sorting Hat, wriggling a little. This time the Hat made up its mind almost immediately, screaming "GRYFFINDOR!" for the whole hall to hear.

"Beilschmidt, Gilbert!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Beilschmidt, Ludwig!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

Prussia grinned and ruffled his little brother's hair as he joined him at the Slytherin table. Germany made a face, but didn't look too annoyed. Evidently all those years of having Prussia in his basement had mellowed him a little.

"Bonnefoy, Francis!"

France winked at England as he took the Hat. England rolled his eyes. France would probably end up in Slytherin, arrogant frog that he was...

"RAVENCLAW!"

That was a definite surprise; France wasn't nearly smart enough to fit into the cleverest house in the school. England shrugged, and watched as Russia stepped up, the Hat yelling out "SLYTHERIN!" almost as soon as it touched the country's head.

"Carriedo, Antonio Fernandez!"

Spain being made the first Hufflepuff of the night was nowhere near as surprising; he was just the sort. Overly friendly, too happy, and not all that gifted in the brains department. Or any other department, to be honest.

"Edelstein, Roderich!"

The hat took a while to decide with Austria, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable, probably from having to wear such a filthy piece of clothing. Eventually, the Hat came to a verdict of "SLYTHERIN!" and Austria sat down. Prussia stopped chatting with Germany and glared at Austria and the Hat simultaneously.

"Honda, Kiku!"

England had the strangest feeling that it was meant to be the other way round, but Japan didn't complain as he sat down on the stool. Too damn polite, that's what he was. Nevertheless, the verdict of "RAVENCLAW!" was just as England had expected.

"Jones, Alfred F!"

America whooped as his name was called and rushed up to the stool. The Hat had no problem sorting him; one second and it was a cry of "GRYFFINDOR!"

America grinned as he was put into what he had called 'the hero house' ever since learning about it on the train. Everybody who knew him expressed no surprise at all.

And then it was "Kirkland, Arthur!" and England was making his way up to the stool on putting on the Hat. It fell over his eyes.

'Well hello there.'

England jumped as he heard the Hat's voice in his head.

'Uh...hello?' he thought, 'Can you read my mind?'

'Oh yes,' the Hat said, 'It's very interesting. There have been an awful lot of you this year, haven't there? Oh, there's no point thinking like that, I know who you are. I think I can remember sorting your brother, an awful while ago now. You lot are tricky to sort; I have to separate the human from the country and that isn't easy, you know.'

'Uhh...right. Can you hurry up with it though? I'd quite like to get this over with.'

'Fine then. Hmm...well there's ambition here, lots of it. Not as much as there was, though...and intelligence! Curiosity, eccentricity – no, don't say there isn't, nobody drinks that much tea – all the qualities required for a Ravenclaw. You'd fit right in there, I have to say.'

'So put me there!'

'Not so fast, that's where I put France,' the Hat chuckled. It really was an infuriating piece of headgear, 'You're not Hufflepuff, I can say that now. There's a sort of loyalty in there, to the people you like, but with all the fluid alliances you people have it's a wonder any of you have loyalty at all. Spain was almost a Gryffindor!'

'That's wonderful. Now sort me.'

'You're a complex character, England. Bravery...some, in battle. In the right places. But not a Gryffindor's bravery; I think you know that, don't you? Well, I guess it's either Ravenclaw or Slytherin. You could choose, if you want.'

'I think I'll let you do that, seeing as you're the one who's actually meant to sort me!'

'Hmm...let me just think.'

'Haven't you done enough of that already?'

"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat yelled out for everybody to hear. England ripped it off his head, scowling, and stomped over to sit beside Austria. Well, Austria was tolerable, he supposed. And he could try and find some beer to drink with Prussia; the house elves were always willing to supply any student who managed to find their way to the kitchens with whatever they wanted.

"Wow," a girl with a prefect badge shining on the front of her robes said, "You're the first Hatstall we've had in ages!"

"Hatstall?" England asked, still a bit grumpy. That Hat was really annoying.

"Someone who takes over five minutes for the Hat to sort," the prefect explained, "You took seven."

"Oh. Okay," England said, shrugging. He didn't really care how long it took the Hat to sort him. He cared about getting the Sorting over and done with.

"Laurinatis, Toris!"

Lithuania was another one who took a while to be sorted. Eventually, the Hat came out with a slightly tentative, "RAVENCLAW?"

Maybe England was imagining things, but he thought it sounded just the littlest bit relieved with getting that over and done with. It certainly wasn't the most obvious of choices.

"Łukasiewicz, Felix!"

Poland looked extraordinarily nervous as he was called up, practically running to the Gryffindor table after he was sorted and ducking his head down. He was weirdly shy around strangers, given how outgoing and bubbly England had seen him around Lithuania, but then Poland was a weird person.

"Oxenstierna, Berwald!"

Sweden was a Hufflepuff; no doubt about that. For the rest of the school, though, there was rather a lot of doubt. People as fierce looking as that were usually Gryffindors or Slytherins. He was getting a couple of stares that were quickly quelled by his usual glare. England laughed; these students were such novices at dealing with temperamental countries.

"Popescu, Vladimir!"

Romani grinned as he was put into Gryffindor. England wasn't surprised; from what he knew of the other nation, which was mostly that despite the fangs and eyes he was _not _a vampire, Romania would fit right in with those headstrong idiots.

The Sorting dragged on; Iceland was put into Ravenclaw, Liechtenstein was a Hufflepuff, as was Italy. Slightly more of a surprise was when Romano sat beside England on the Slytherin bench. England frowned at him.

"I threatened it with the mafia if it put me into the same house as Veneziano, okay, bastard?"

England laughed out loud at that; trust Romano to try and unsuccessfully distance himself from his remarkably clingy little brother. It wouldn't work. Finland became a Gryffindor and Canada was put into Ravenclaw and finally the Sorting came to a slightly ominous end as Switzerland sat down beside his sister with the Hufflepuffs. England had the feeling the Hat had been threatened into making sure he was in the same house as Liechtenstein.

The feast was wonderful, and England found himself relaxed enough to hold a civilised conversation with both Austria and Prussia, something that in normal circumstances would have been akin to the apocalypse. As the plates were wiped clean and chatter drew to a close, Dumbledore stood up.

"Just a few more words now we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. Our caretaker, Mr Filch, has asked me to remind all students that you are not permitted to enter the forest in the grounds, and that the use of magic in school corridors is not permitted. I should also tell you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out-of-bounds to all of those who do not wish to die a very painful death."

He wasn't joking, England realised.

"On a slightly lighter note, we have two new teachers this year; Miss Héderváry will be teaching flying and refereeing all Quidditch matches and Professor Thomassen will be taking over from Professor Binns as History of Magic teacher."

Both Norway and Hungary waved to the students. The clap Hungary received was distinctly warmer than Norway's; flying was obviously a much more popular subject. England couldn't see why.

"And now," Dumbledore finished, "Bedtime! Off you trot!"

The mass exodus of students was so sudden that England found himself swept along in a tide of green-robed Slytherins. He had always liked green. It was a nice colour. He was just reflecting on the fact that Slytherin might be just the house for him when a pair of cold eyes reached his and narrowed. Evidently, Draco Malfoy did not think the same way.

* * *

><p><em>Longest chapter I've ever written for anything, which is both sad and awesome at the same time! I think you're probably all getting a little bit bored with me thanking everyone at the end of every chapter, but I'd feel sort of ungrateful if I stopped saying it just as the amounts of everything start to increase, so from now on just take it for granted that I am eternally grateful. I wanted to get this chapter finished and up because it was the Sorting and incredibly fun to write, but updates will probably slow down after this as I get back into the habit of updating my other stories as well, which I have sadly neglected. Enjoy!<em>

**_Xaelijor: _**_thanks for your advice, and thank you so much too! I shall try to keep it up :P, **gAmZeE mAkArA:** No problem!, **CanadaFans:** I'm glad you agree with me too and I think you're definitely right about his houses, Hufflepuff was the other option I considered in detail for him xD._


	5. How To Annoy a Potions Master

Chapter Four: How To Annoy a Potions Master

* * *

><p>America looked at the rest of the class as he strolled into their History of Magic class with Harry and Ron. He had fallen in with them after Canada had introduced him to the two boys, and when his brother was put into Ravenclaw America just stuck around. Besides, he sort of needed the friends. After all, it wasn't like he was that close to any of the other countries amongst the Gryffindor first years – it wasn't like any of them could stand him. Denmark and Finland stuck together for the most part and Romania and Poland had found themselves talking to each other a lot more, so America was left to find other friends amongst the humans.<p>

Anyway, Harry and Ron were actually really cool. They had no reason to be suspicious of America at all and had accepted him as their friend as easily as America accepted a hamburger as edible. They would occasionally talk to Canada too, though he spent most of his time with France and the Ravenclaws.

One thing America had learned about Ron and Harry was that their familial situations were polar opposites. Ron was from a family of seven, with five older brothers, all wizards, and a little sister who was dying to get into Hogwarts already. Harry, on the other hand, had been adopted into a family who could not have wanted him as one of them less. For America, this was a scenario almost impossible to imagine. Their relationship had soured by the end of it, but when England had become his older brother America could remember being doted on every hour of every day – when England was around, that was. The periods when he had been alone weren't down to any particular malice or neglect; they were what happened when you were the representatives of nations. It wasn't something either of them could control.

Sometimes America wished he'd realised that sooner.

Their History of Magic class was in the afternoon of their second day. America hadn't really been looking forward to this, as he'd been informed that all he would ever learn about were goblins, who were just ugly and mean little creatures, and also because Norway was teaching it. In America's opinion, though he had no real diplomatic reason to think this, Norway was really intimidating; he was like what would happen if England lost the ability to make facial expressions and became a little less calm, and that was a scary prospect.

As the class drifted in, Harry, Ron and America made a beeline for the seats at the back. Their class was with the Slytherins, who apparently hated the Gryffindors for some reason. America had also been told that the Gryffindors detested their counterparts with just as much fervour, if not more. He looked around...there were definitely some of them that he hated. That Malfoy guy, for one. Maybe he could hate them all.

America spotted a familiar blonde head and gave that up at once.

"Arthur!" he grinned, heading over to where England was reading a book.

"Hello, Alfred," England sighed. He didn't look up from the page detailing the life and times of Uric the Oddball.

"What's History of Magic about anyway?" America asked. This was a question that had been bugging him for quite some time, as he didn't really understand how magical history could be very different from normal history, and if it was how it could be in any way interesting.

"Well," England said as though explaining how you added one plus one, "It's about the history of magic."

"Yeah, I get _that_," America said, "But like, how is that different from normal history?"

"Because it's magic?"

"So is it like how magic began and stuff?"

"Do you know, Alfred, I have absolutely no idea. Now please go away. Or at least shut up."

America tried very hard to do that. He managed for about thirty seconds, before asking, "What –"

"Hey, Alfred, what are you talking to Slytherins for?"

"Oh, hi Ron!" America said, "Because –"

"Because we're undoubtedly better conversation," England muttered, turning a page of his book.

"No, you're not!" Ron said, "You're all...well, you're Slytherins, aren't you?"

"Which means what, exactly?" England asked.

"Well, it means...well, you're probably really evil or something. Everyone knows there's not a witch or wizard in Slytherin who didn't go bad, don't they? And you're all obsessed with being pure-bloods."

"I have absolutely no intention of turning to the Dark Arts except to hex annoying Gryffindors, and my father was a muggle."

"Oh," Ron said, abashed.

"You can't think we're all like Malfoy, can you?" England said, "Because statistically, that's impossible. Probably."

"Settle down, class," came a curt voice from the front of the classroom. Norway had arrived, face characteristically expressionless.

"Bloody Vikings," England said under his breath, shutting his book with a snap. America said a quick goodbye and sat down with Ron and Harry.

"Good afternoon," Norway said, "My name is Professor Thomassen. If you could make the effort to pronounce it correctly that would be wonderful. I have been informed by the previous History of Magic teacher, a Professor Binns, that your curriculum was to include goblin rebellions and little else. As the Ministry of Magic does not impose a particularly restrictive set curriculum for schools, this was unnecessary as all you need is a brief grasp of the motives at play. We will therefore continue onto the origins of magic.

"Though it has since become the one largely all-encompassing form of wizardry and witchcraft we all know, at first magic had three distinct forms, each originating in a hotspot of magical activity. The first was in areas like Ancient Greece and Rome, the third in Ancient China and nearby Asian lands, and the last in Celtic Britain and Ireland."

America was beginning to nod off, lectures about Celtic druids and the mistletoe staffs that were the first things resembling wands drifting about his ears. He knew that this was important but he didn't really care. History of Magic had been tested and History of Magic had been found wanting.

* * *

><p>The next day at breakfast, America was sitting beside Harry and Ron as usual when a beautiful white owl landed in front of Harry. America vaguely remembered her as Hedwig, Harry's pet. There was a scrap of parchment attached to one of her legs. Harry frowned, evidently wondering who the note was from, and untied the scroll.<p>

"It's from Hagrid!" he said. America knew that Hagrid was the Groundskeeper at Hogwarts, but didn't know why he'd be writing to Harry. He had noticed when they were crossing the lake that first night that the two were relatively friendly, but maybe they had just struck up a conversation. Most people seemed to recognise Harry on sight, after all.

"'oo's 'agrid?" Ron tried to say around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"He's the Gamekeeper," Harry sighed, "He wants me to visit him this afternoon."

"We get afternoons off?" America asked.

"Yeah," Ron told him, "Every Friday."

"Awesome!"

"Anyway," Harry said, cutting across the two of them in exasperation, "I'm going to go down after Potions."

Ron shuddered, "That's taught by Snape. Everyone says he's awful to Gryffindors. Favours the Slytherins loads, though."

"Good for Arthur," America laughed, "I'll have to get him to give me all his notes."

Ron looked at America suspiciously, "Why do you keep hanging around him?"

"Because we're friends, duh."

"But he's a Slytherin."

"So? They can't all be bad. Gilbert's one and he's awesome."

"Ye-es," Harry, "But then there's Malfoy. And Ivan..."

The three turned around to look at the hulking figure of Russia, bent over his porridge and trying to avoid a Belarus that looked as though she wanted to murder everyone in the room. America swore he could hear a low, rather sinister murmur of 'Big Brother' from the far table. Though that could also have been Liechtenstein, who had been passing the Gryffindor table at the time; maybe her voice had mixed with the hooting of the post owls, or something. America fervently hoped so, because whatever about the help he had once given her, Belarus was positively terrifying.

"Hey Harry," Ron said, "Can me and Alfred come visit Hagrid with you?"

"Yeah, okay," Harry said, and America grinned. Today was going to be awesome.

America reassessed that opinion as soon as they began queuing outside the dungeon in which Potions was taught. He spotted England and so made his way over towards the other country, leaving Harry and Ron to talk amongst themselves. On his way he was accosted by Malfoy.

"Oh look, if it isn't Kirkland's mudblood friend," Malfoy sneered, looking down his nose at America. America glared at him. He didn't know what a mudblood was, but it did not seem like a good thing.

"Leave him alone, Malfoy," said a familiar English voice, in an all-too-familiar tone of exasperation. It was admittedly rather nice to hear the annoyance in England's voice directed at somebody else rather than America, but he sort of wished it didn't need to be there.

"Oh? Is that so, Kirkland? And why should I?" Malfoy drawled.

"What possible reason could you have for insulting Alfred, Malfoy, other than to give your ego a nice little boost?" England snapped.

"To annoy you, obviously. Is this the best you can do? You're not a mudblood yourself, you're not stupid. So why do you keep letting this..._American _hang around you?"

"I'd rather let four of him hang around me than be anywhere near you, Malfoy."

This, America knew, was an insult of very grave proportions; England did not say he preferred America's company to somebody else's and mean it lightly.

"It's good that I feel the same way about you then, isn't it?" Malfoy said.

"Very good," England replied, "I'm glad that we understand each other."

"What is going on here?"

The three first years looked up to see a face with a long hooked nose staring down at them. It was surrounded by a curtain of greasy black hair.

"Nothing, Professor," England said smoothly, "Myself and Malfoy and Alfred were just talking."

"Just...talking," Snape – because who else could it be? – said in a very soft, very dangerous voice, "Well, make sure to keep your talking outside of the classroom."

His gaze rested on England for quite some time, the country growing steadily more uncomfortable under the force of it, before Snape turned around and swept towards the dungeon. He let the first years in and waited until they had all found a seat before speaking in that same soft, deadly voice.

"Ah yes," he said, "Harry Potter. Our new – _celebrity._"

America bristled for Harry, wondering what exactly it was that the other boy had done to make Snape hate him so much already. Stealing a glance at his friend, he realised that Harry was just as mystified as he was.

"You are here," Snape said, "To learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."

The voice was quiet, but at the same time filled the whole room, floating around them to make sure they caught each and every word. Even America, who had found any class up to now that didn't involve waving around his wand, found himself hanging on Snape's every word.

"Potter!" the teacher said suddenly, jolting America out of his fixation on the slightly hypnotic previous speech, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

America had never heard of any of those before. A bushy-haired girl in front of him put her hand up, waving it around wildly, but Snape ignored her.

"I don't know, sir," said Harry. Snape curled his lip in contempt.

"Tut, tut – fame clearly isn't everything."

America's blood was beginning to boil and as Snape asked a second impossible question he felt himself begin to reach danger point.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Harry frowned; America could almost see his brain working through his skull. Snape was about to make yet another snide remark, no doubt about Harry's intelligence, but somebody else beat him to it.

"The stomach of a goat."

Snape whirled around, focusing on the person who had spoken. Green eyes stared straight back at him out of the gloom of the dungeon.

"I'm sorry?" he asked. He was most likely torn between the favouritism he felt he owed to his house and the indignation he actually felt.

"The stomach of a goat," said England, "That's where you'd find a bezoar."

"Well, at least _somebody _had the forethought to read his schoolbooks before school," Snape said, "But please refrain from speaking when it is not your turn, Mr – "

"Kirkland," England told him, "Arthur Kirkland."

"Well, Mr Kirkland," Snape's voice was tight, "Five points to Slytherin for knowing the answer. But do not answer out of turn again."

America smirked into his cauldron.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry I didn't get this up earlier; I finished the next chapter about two hours ago, but then realised that I should probably write this one as well, so here it is. What that does mean is that this has officially become my main project, because I love it so much. I've also decided what I'll do concerning the vast amount of characters I've put in this story; there will be a set number of 'main' Hetalia characters, so to speak – namely England, America, Norway, Hungary, France and Prussia, who will be tied in to the actual plot of the books. Then there will be the secondary characters who will have roles like Neville and Luna - Spain, Romano, Germany, Italy, Austria. The rest will be just be involved in random bits around Hogwarts – then I've decided that if I ever write a sequel I will put in just this lot, but have plans to involve all the countries at a later date. And obviously there will be the Harry Potter characters, too, because they're all amazing as well. Enjoy this chapter, and the next one will be along some time tomorrow. <em>


	6. How To Start a Fight

Chapter Five: How To Start a Fight

* * *

><p>Prussia was enjoying school. He had never thought that he would actually so much as think that sentence, but it was not all that bad. There was magic and there were wands and there were some really, <em>really <em>awesome ghosts. Obviously, if there had been a school like this in Germany – preferably in the east – then it would be a whole lot better. And he had to put up with Austria and that whiny Italian that was nowhere near as cute as the actual Italy. It was also in Britain – not England, as the stern Transfiguration teacher had pointed out to him in no uncertain terms when he had mentioned it. But still, on the whole, it was pretty awesome.

Some of his classes were more awesome than others, but Potions was a doss. Their teacher, something-or-other Snape, was the head of Slytherin and so automatically favoured all of them. He kept looking at England kind of oddly, but he was most certainly biased. He even managed to stop himself from taking points of Romano when the southern half of Italy knocked over a bottle on one Snape's shelves and burned a hole through the floor. Snape had, however, seen fit to dock ten points from Gryffindor in their second lesson when America had asked what you would get if you added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood.

The rest of their lessons were as interesting as lessons in which you learned how to turn matches into needles could be. By far the weirdest thing about the school was that it was way, way too easy to get lost. The staircases changed whenever they felt like, and Prussia had found himself stranded on the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side far more times than he had liked. If he had known how to do so he would have unlocked it as soon as blinking, but he hadn't and so had to settle for pressing his ear to the thick wood and trying to hear as much as he could. For some reason it sounded like really, really loud snoring.

All in all, boring World War lessons aside, the only thing wrong with Hogwarts was the slimy worm Prussia had to share classes with. And he did not mean Austria.

Draco Malfoy had rubbed Prussia the wrong way ever since the first words they had spoken to each other – which on the other boy's part was to enquire after Prussia's heritage. As a nation – none of whom had any idea of their real blood status – masquerading as a muggle-born, Prussia had not made a very good impression. At least to Malfoy. If you had asked Prussia he would have said that his impression was awesome.

It turned out that the Slytherin first years were split cleanly in two when it came to Malfoy. He was undoubtedly the leader of the year, revered by all haughty blood-status-obsessed Purebloods but also undeniably hated by every country that came into contact with him. And Malfoy hated them back.

He went out of his way to make shallow jibes about their lack of knowledge of the magical world or their status as 'mudbloods'. For some reason his biggest target was England, with whom he had a rivalry almost bigger than the one he had with Harry. Of course all attempts to make anyone's life a misery had failed, but that was not for want of trying.

"Look boys," Malfoy sneered to Crabbed and Goyle as Prussia sat down beside his brother at the breakfast table, "It's the mudblood. Hey Beilschmidt, have you figured out which one's the right end of the wand yet?"

"Just ignore him," Germany said, eating a sausage that was not a patch on the wurst they had at home.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Prussia muttered, taking a sausage for himself. He sent a glare at Malfoy, just in case.

"Doing an awful job of ignoring anybody," said a voice from behind them. England sat down opposite Prussia and took out a book; _A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_. Prussia snorted.

"Why are you always reading?" he asked.

"I like reading."

"You like reading far too much. It's almost as bad as Roderich and his piano."

"There is nothing wrong with my piano, Gilbert!" Austria said tartly as he reached for the bacon.

"Yeah there is," Prussia scoffed, "It's like you have some sort of emotional connection to it."

"I don't have a connection of any sort to any specific piano," Austria said uncomfortably.

"So you admit that you have a connection to pianos in general?"

"No!" Austria protested, flushing violently red.

"Awww, does ickle Roderich miss his baby piano?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I do. I enjoy music and I would much prefer this school if I was able to play something."

Derisive laughter rippled around the rest of the Slytherins, led by Malfoy. He smirked at Austria.

"Piano? There's no piano here, _mudblood_," he sneered, "Better get rid of those muggle hobbies soon. I know! You could try joining the Gobstones club, I'm sure they've got room for another prick."

Austria glared at Malfoy. It was probably the angriest Prussia had ever seen him. His cheeks were tinged bright red and he was glowering at the other boy with all his might. A quick glance up the High Table showed Prussia that fortunately Hungary was deep in conversation with Professor McGonagall. If she saw any signs of Austria being in trouble she would be down there in a flash and if they got bailed out by a teacher it would just give Malfoy even more ammunition. Besides, she'd probably think it was Prussia's fault without even bothering to hear what was going on, which was so unfair. He'd no idea what he'd done to deserve it.

"If there's any pricks here, it's you, Malfoy," England said coolly, looking up from his book.

"Really? Well at least my eyebrows don't look like caterpillars have crawled on my face and begun to rot there," Malfoy shot back.

"At least I don't look like a ferret with something stuck on his nose."

"At least I don't spend all my time reading because my friends don't want to talk to me."

"At least I have friends who I don't have to pay to stick around."

Prussia declined to point out that England didn't actually have any friends. This tennis match was far too entertaining. Malfoy's face developed a slightly pink hue.

"I don't _pay_ anybody," he said angrily. Then he smirked, "Crabbe and Goyle stick around because they want to. Right, boys?"

"Yeah," Crabbe grunted, looking up from where he was stuffing his face with food. Goyle sensed the tension in the air and responded with his go-to reaction of threatening sudden and very painful violence. Prussia had seen guys like that before and he knew that they didn't have enough brain cells to do anything else.

England and Austria ignored the fact that even together they were about half the size of one of either Crabbe or Goyle.

"The only reason they want to," Austria said softly, "Is because they're not intelligent to go anywhere else."

England snorted, "Given that they have all the intelligence of a wildebeest, their herd mentality has obviously kicked in and they're too stupid to leave."

Austria nodded. "Or they just want to be able to hit people and stay for the fights you pick."

Crabbe and Goyle, thick skins obviously feeling something trying to poke through, began to glare menacingly at all four of the nations who had decided to turn up to breakfast. Romano's attendance was intermittent as half the time he was press-ganged by Spain and Italy into eating at the Hufflepuff table. Russia was probably hiding from Belarus, who was probably trying to find him and make him marry her.

"I'm not the one who picks fights," Malfoy said in a feeble attempt to sound threatening, "I'm the one who puts down rebellions."

At this, Prussia had to laugh. He clutched his stomach, silent giggles working their way through his body. Malfoy looked stunned, unable to comprehend what it was he said that was so incredibly funny. Crabbe and Goyle were slapping their fists against their hands, sniffing out a fight, but there was too much pride in both England and Austria, as well as Prussia, to back down now.

"I'd be very careful, if I were you," Malfoy said softly, "Because, well...you're not actually as big as your egos, are you?"

Austria, Germany and Prussia, all of whom were taller than Malfoy, stared at him in utter bemusement.

"If you average it out," England said, "In relation to size your ego beats all of us."

"Admitting that someone beats you isn't very Slytherin of you, Kirkland," Malfoy said, "But then I always said that the Hat shouldn't put mudbloods in here. You lower the standard."

"Unfortunately for you and your prejudices, Malfoy, I'm not actually muggle-born."

"You're a blood traitor though, which is just as bad."

"I'd ask your family about that one, because I think they have a list that details what you must think of people, and you value blood over opinions."

"Well of course," Malfoy said, "The more wizarding blood, the better the wizard."

"Blood has no reflection on ability, Malfoy. Just look at Crabbe; his parents are wizards and he's the biggest lump of stupidity I've ever met."

This was too much. Crabbe, brain finally kicking in, realised that he'd been insulted. Prussia didn't know whether he was actually offended or whether he just felt he should appear to react, but he stepped forward and grabbed the front of England's robes, fist raised.

"Hey!" Prussia yelled. Standing up for England, of all people, what was coming to him? "Pick on somebody your own size!"

Crabbe, though, had obviously not heard of playing fair – or fairer, because Prussia was still tiny compared to him – and drew his hand back for the punch. England smirked, drawing his wand and pressing it against Crabbe's throat. Given that he was basically being lifted off the ground, it looked slightly uncomfortable.

Crabbe's piggy eyes looked from wand to Prussia to Malfoy, brain trying to work out who to listen to. Before he could do anything, however, England muttered, "_Rictusempra_."

Crabbe collapsed to the floor, laughing uncontrollably, letting go of England's robes. Prussia smirked at the looks of consternation on the faces of both Malfoy and Goyle. The latter stormed forward, ready to pound England into oblivion, but stopped when the wand was turned on him.

"Would you like to try instead?" England asked. Goyle thought about it for a second, before going for the wand hand, grabbing the stick of wood and holding it high above England's head.

"Jump," he sneered, "Jump, or I'll break it."

England bit his lip and glared at Goyle with undisguised hatred, clearly fighting pride and fully aware of the knowledge that if Goyle broke his wand it would be rather time-consuming to obtain another one. Prussia looked at the High Table again, trying to figure out whether or not he should get Hungary's attention. Most of the Slytherins weren't bothered to try and stop what was going on, most of the rest of the houses didn't care what happened if it involved Slytherins being humiliated, even by their own classmates, and Goyle was blocking the view from the High Table.

"Jump," hissed Goyle again, grip on England's wand tightening.

"What on Earth is going on here?" all six of the first years who weren't incapacitated looked up to see Professor McGonagall glaring down at them. She pointed her wand at Crabbe, muttered something, and he stopped laughing.

"Kirkland did something to Crabbe, Professor," Malfoy said quickly, "It was completely unprovoked."

"Hey!" Prussia yelled, "You were the one who started it, you insulted all of this, and then Crabbe almost attacked Eng – Arthur. It was self-defense!"

Professor McGonagall looked at them all, her expression furious, "Is any of this true?"

"Yes," Austria said, "Malfoy purposely started a fight with us."

"And then you responded by jinxing Crabbe?" Professor McGonagall asked England, "I must admit, I expected better of you, Mr Kirkland."

"It was self-defence," England muttered, glaring at Malfoy, who smirked. Professor McGonagall sighed, looking at him very strangely.

"I hope you all realise just how atrocious your behaviour was – all of you! Fifty points from Slytherin for your ridiculous actions. You have been here less than a week, and that is the only reason you are not all receiving detention. You should consider yourselves very, _very _lucky. If anything of this sort happens again then I cannot articulate just how angry I will be."

Professor McGonagall stormed off, robes swishing. Prussia glowered at Malfoy, whose smirk had turned sour. Germany let out a sigh.

"Well, we might as well get to class," he said, "What do we have first?"

Prussia rooted around in his bag for his timetable, eventually finding it scrunched into a ball and hidden underneath a copy of _Magical Drafts and Potions. _

"History of Magic," he groaned, "_Again_."

* * *

><p><em>If anybody is wondering about the timetable of events, the prologue takes place around the time Harry received his very first letter and the first, second and third should be obvious. The fourth is obviously Harry's first Potions lesson. This one is around a week in, on the Tuesday after the Friday Harry and Ron go to visit Hagrid with America. (I figure that if they hadn't had Potions until the Friday then that was still their first week, and that the school started on the Monday with the journey and the Sorting, so obviously they didn't have lessons. It isn't feasible that the entirety of the Gryffindor first years have only one Potions lesson a week, hence the reference to America in their second lesson).<em>

_(Replies to the reviews from last chapter as well, which I forgot) **Random:**__Thank you very much, **Guest: **that was exactly my reasoning too!, **Anon: **thanks for pointing that out, I went back and changed it and also found some other typos as well, **Guest: **I know any Romano/England interaction is not coming next chapter, so sorry about that, but I'm planning on writing one from Romano's POV a bit later on so I'll try and sneak it in there. If not I'll put it into one of England's chapters._


	7. How To Find Your New Seeker

Chapter Six: How To Find Your New Seeker

* * *

><p>Hungary was tired. The first week had lagged slightly, flying pushed aside for the sake of the students getting back into the rhythm of school. For Hungary, it had been more like getting used to strange elves that popped into your room with a hot water bottle as soon as you mentioned aloud that you wanted one. Or a week to get her head around staircases that moved when they felt like. Or to acclimatise herself to a school where throwing a Frisbee with teeth at your friend was considered a minor infraction of the rules.<p>

And now that week was over and Hungary still had not had time to practise how to actually fly. She had snatched a couple of afternoons that were just her and her broom and the wind, but in between the constant theory lessons and supervising the house teams there hadn't been time to do much more than to find her weakest flying legs. It had been years since she had last flown; she'd put down her experience with the Hungarian national team on the application form for the job and she had no idea whether or not they'd checked the dates – as no one had said anything she had decided to hope for the best – but if they had done so they would have found out that Elizaveta Héderváry was actually the Hungarian team's hero of the nineteenth century and not the twentieth.

As class tempo and her amount of time in the air increased Hungary began to feel slightly more confident, but she was still nervous and tired and ratty by the time she had to be outside to teach a group of first years how to fly. An ordinary class would have been bad enough, but Prussia was going to be there and Hungary really did not want to deal with him right now. It would be nice to see Austria again, and at least she knew England and Germany would try to keep the rest in line – until America decided to piss off the former too much and all hell broke loose – but that was little consolation.

It was therefore to be expected that the sight of Prussia and Austria calmly engaging each other in conversation without any sign of tension was enough to make Hungary stop dead in her tracks and just stare. She looked at them for just long enough to avoid attracting attention before blinking and snapping back to reality. Of course it wasn't that weird that they were talking in a civilised manner. Of course not. Prussia and Austria had known each other long enough that that was not at all strange.

Hungary blew her whistle and about forty heads snapped towards her. Some eyes were appraising her coolly while others brightened in recognition. She ignored all of them.

"Right! Good morning, class. My name is Miss Héderváry, and I'll be your flying instructor for the rest of the year. Whatever you say, it's highly unlikely that any of you actually know how to fly particularly well, so make sure you listen to me, okay? Any questions?"

A girl with a face like a pug put up her hand.

"Yes, Miss –"

"Parkinson. Pansy Parkinson. Why aren't you a Professor, uh...Miss?"

"Because I'm not qualified to be a professor. I have, though, played for the Hungarian national side before and am definitely able to teach you flying without a very large risk of you dying."

"Well, the Hungarian national Quidditch team is not very good, is it?" Parkinson simpered.

"Actually, the Hungarian team has won at least ten Quidditch World Cups. The English side has only won three, and the third was on default because the Americans had accidentally scheduled their Quodpot qualifiers at the same time and so turned up to that instead." Austria said.

"Oh," said Parkinson, "And when was the last time the Hungarians won?"

"1985."

"Still, you're not an actual Professor," a boy with pale blonde hair sneered, "When my father hears about this, he'll –"

"He won't be able to do anything because it doesn't matter and it's not his responsibility," Prussia said, "Just shut up Malfoy, no one cares."

Malfoy looked as though he wanted to say something, but contented himself with sneering angrily at Prussia as though the country was beneath him. He wasn't, even though technically if you were to compile a list of nations by status, Prussia would not be near the top. After all, he didn't really exist.

"Right, class, there should be a broom in front of you. Now, I want you to put your hands above the broom and say 'up'. Then it should fly up into your hand. You probably won't get it on your first try but keep going, you'll get there."

There were murmurs of assent from around the class, and soon Hungary could hear a chorus of 'up' from everybody. She watched closely, trying to see if anybody managed to get their broom to spring into their hand on the first try, a sure sign of flying ability. Only one boy managed the feat; a dark-haired young man with a thin red scar on his forehead. Hungary recognised him as Harry Potter, some English hero. She couldn't remember why he was so important, though. It was something to do with that Dark Wizard who had risen to power about a decade ago, but that was the extent of her knowledge. How a baby had done anything like that was beyond her, but she didn't really care about such things anyway.

Surprisingly enough, given that his national game was Quodpot, of all things, America's broom rose towards him the second time, nestling neatly into his outstretched hand.

"Hey look, Artie!" he yelled, "I did it!"

"Yes, well done," England grumbled. His broom was still resolutely fixed to the ground, rolling around occasionally when his 'up' was particularly forceful, "Aren't you the budding Quidditch player? And it's Ar-_thur_, not Artie, git."

"Whatever. Hah, your broom still isn't moving," America crowed, "I'm gonna get on the Gryffindor team and we're gonna win, and kick all your little Slytherin asses. I am _such _a hero."

"Slytherin will win the Quidditch Cup," England droned as though he'd said that a billion times, "Though I'd almost take a Gryffindor win just to see the look on Malfoy's face."

"Me too! But hey, at least you'll win too if he does."

"Yeah, but he won't like that I'll win as well. Prick."

"Yeah. But you'll be happy for me, right?"

"No," England scoffed, "Besides, you're the country that plays Quodpot, remember? There's no way you can be this good at flying already."

"Told you," America said smugly, "I'm a hero. H – E – R – O spells hero."

"Prick."

Hungary laughed, silently agreeing with England on that one, a remarkably rare occasion. She shrugged, and watched as more and more students managed to catch their brooms.

"Right, now that most of you have got your brooms sorted, we'll start on how to actually fly."

Excited murmurs rippled around the forty or so students assembled in front of her, and despite herself Hungary grinned. The anticipation was contagious and reminded her of her first time on a broom – it had ended in one broken broom, one flying teacher unconscious courtesy of a frying pan and Hungary stuck up a tree. Ah, how she missed the days when problems could be solved using one whack of a kitchen implement. Diplomatic relations got so _boring. _

"Okay!" she said, "Now, I want you to mount your brooms. You need to keep it level, and it's very important not to make particular sudden movements until you're very comfortable on a broom, because it's likely that you will slide off the end."

Hungary began patrolling the rows, offering a steadying hand here or a couple of words of warning there. Malfoy had automatically assumed he was above all of her cautions and tried to get on the broom without any instruction. He had ended up flat on his arse on the grass, the crows of Gryffindors and Slytherins alike echoing in his ears, his face bright red. He claimed that was how he'd been doing it for years, but it was clearly the wrong way, and his peers weren't letting him away with it. Even Hungary had to stifle a grin at Parkinson fussing over him as though he'd fallen fifty feet.

Once Malfoy had been settled on his broom and a plump Gryffindor boy was left gripping the wood as though it was all that was keeping him alive, Hungary blew her whistle.

"Right, class. You need to grip the handle firmly – not that tight, Longbottom, you'll choke it! – grip it firmly but keep in mind that this is a broom, not a piece of wood. You do not need to break it. I'm going to blow my whistle again, and I need you to kick off – hard! – from the ground when I do – but only when I do! Keep your brooms steady, and if you're doing it right you should be flying. Rise a few feet from the ground, and then go back down by leaning forward. Any questions?"

Longbottom put his hand in the air, "Miss Héderváry, do we...uh, do we have to do it?"

"Yes, Longbottom, you do, but it's nothing to be worried about," there were sniggers from Malfoy's Slytherin cohort at this. Hungary glared at them, "It is perfectly natural to be nervous when it's your first time on a broom, Malfoy! At least Longbottom managed to get onto his broom properly on the first try!"

The rest of the class, mainly the Gryffindors, erupted into gales of laughter.

"Yeah Malfoy, at least he didn't fall onto his arse like you did," Denmark jeered. Hungary rolled her eyes.

"Hey Malfoy," Prussia cackled, "Figured out which one's the right end of the broomstick yet?"

Malfoy had flushed bright red. The two lumps of clay either side of him started to glare menacingly at everybody present; Hungary had the feeling that unsupervised they would have knocked the entire class into a coma, but thankfully they didn't try. Somehow she didn't think that beating up first years with frying pans was allowed. Given that lapse in the teacher talking, the students began to chat among themselves, the conversations punctuated with the occasional shriek of somebody who began to topple off their broom.

"Everybody shut up!" Hungary yelled. They did exactly that at once, "Thank you_. _Now, as I was _saying, _when I reach the count of three you will kick off from the ground. Got it? One – two – LONGBOTTOM, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Longbottom's broom had started to rise off the ground, wobbling and juddering alarmingly, but – yes, definitely rising. In fact, it was doing more than rising; it seemed to stop for a second, like a hound sniffing out a scent, and then shot towards the sky. Twenty feet, thirty feet, and still rocketing towards the clouds above. Longbottom, who had obviously pushed off from the ground too early and too hard in his jumpy state, looked as white as a sheet. His eyes were screwed shut, his face a mask of pure terror. And then – _crack! _

It was over. Longbottom jerked on his broom, the stick making a shuddering descent, and fell off. He plummeted towards the ground, screaming, and hit it with a thud. Damn. Hungary kicked herself for letting it happen – and mentally imagined a bit of kicking Longbottom too. Her first lesson actually teaching students how to fly and some kid had gone and broken his neck or something.

There was a large crowd clustered around the boy, whispering excitedly. Hungary shoved them aside.

"Out of the way!" she hissed angrily, stopping to inspect Longbottom. He was curled up in a ball on the ground, whimpering and clutching his arm. She lifted it up and he cried out. Hungary sucked in a breath through her teeth, "Broken arm, nothing to worry about. We'll get you up to Madame Pomfrey and she'll fix it up easily, all right? Chin up, there's a good boy."

Hungary stood up, addressing the group as a whole. Some were looking concerned and others – namely Malfoy and Parkinson – appeared vaguely amused by the whole thing. Hungary glared at them.

"I'm taking Longbottom to the Hospital Wing," she said sternly, "I want no funny business from any of you, you got that? Any one of you so much as touches as a broomstick and I'll have you expelled before you can say Quidditch. Umm...Beilschmidt – no not you, Gilbert, I mean Ludwig! – you're in charge."

She turned and lifted Longbottom gently to his feet, murmuring soothing nonsense words as she guided him towards the castle. He was crying now, yelping every time Hungary jogged his arm. They were halfway to the hospital wing when she noticed something through one of the high mullioned windows.

There was a boy – Potter, it looked like from here, though it was hard to see – in the air. Malfoy was opposite him, holding something in his hand and…he threw it, far into the sky. Hungary didn't notice her grip tightening on Longbottom until he whimpered again. Those two were _so _expelled. And then Potter pointed his broom towards the ground and sped forwards, towards the speck in the distance that was whatever Malfoy had thrown. Potter jerked to a halt suddenly, drawing the broomstick up and grinning in triumph. He threw something small and round into the air and caught it again.

"That...that's my remembrall," Neville, who had started to watch the spectacle too, said, "I must have left it on the ground when I – when I fell."

Hungary ignored him, thinking to herself. The Gryffindor team was short a Seeker ever since their last one had left last year. Potter was in Gryffindor. And from what Hungary had just witnessed, he had all the makings of a Seeker who could play for England – and maybe finally win them something too. She bit her lip.

"Longbottom..." she said slowly, "Is it alright if I just leave you here for a minute?"

"What? Why? Professor –"

But Hungary was already gone, sprinting onto the Quidditch pitch and yelling at Potter. Wood would be over the moon when she told him she'd found him a Seeker, she just knew it. And the look on Snape's face when he found out his team once again had no advantage over the Gryffindors would be hilarious.

* * *

><p><em>I can just imagine Hungary running onto the Quidditch pitch and yelling about Harry being the new seeker. My autocorrect just went into Spanish, which is weird...<em>

_**Guest 1: **__thanks! Sorry there's no interaction here, but I'll try to add in some next time. Any ideas on what kind you'd prefer? __**Guest 2: **__thank you very much! Eh, the History class was just to give a background for conversation; it wasn't a scene in itself. Glad you enjoyed anyway! Also, 'Murica was at the Gryffindor table eating and entertaining Ron and Harry with stories of Iggy's incompetence. As the other two were the ones facing towards the Gryffindor table he did not see the fight, and his friends did not bother to point it out to him ;)_


	8. How To Make a Fool of Yourself

_**Note: **__I am a little nervous about this chapter, as the only plot is in the first third and the second two were mainly filled out for a request. That said, I do hope you enjoy. I haven't said this before, I keep forgetting; constructive criticism can be just as motivational as a glowing review, so if you do have any corrections feel free to say. Flames will be flamed back though, you have been warned._

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Seven: How To Make a Fool of Yourself<span>

* * *

><p>Breakfast at Hogwarts was never a quiet affair. The Great Hall was constantly filled with chatter and eating and the hooting of the post owls as they swooped overhead. On occasion there were bangs and shouts as somebody blew up their water, or the scream of a howler. It was not a peaceful place, but neither was it somewhere people didn't want to be.<p>

At the Gryffindor table, America was eating his breakfast with his totally awesome friends. Ron was steadily working his way through a pile of sausages that reached up to the top of his head. And Ron was tall! Harry was eating porridge. America was tucking into some bacon. He had initially been slightly worried about the lack of available hamburgers, but Canada had asked around for the way to get into the kitchens and then passed the secret on to America. He now knew that there was a steady supply of his favourite food whenever he needed it. The first thing he'd done when he'd entered the kitchens was to instruct the house elves that they were to always have hamburgers ready for America to eat at the end of the day. It was a nice arrangement, though one that didn't necessarily guarantee that America would be small enough for his broomstick. They weren't designed for tall Americans.

Their main topic of conversation was how on earth Harry had managed to get himself onto the Quidditch team. Both America and Ron knew their friend was absolutely amazing when on a broom, but according to Ron – who generally seemed to be right when it came to Hogwarts lore, unless the information had originated from his twin brothers – first years were never picked for the teams. Harry was the youngest player in a century.

They'd all thought Hungary was slightly mad when she'd run out of the school yelling something about Harry and seeking, but once she'd calmed down enough to breathlessly inform the boy that he was now on his house's Quidditch team, the Gryffindors were all jubilant. Even some of the Slytherins had looked the littlest bit impressed. All except for Malfoy, who stared at Harry with nothing short of pure loathing.

"Youngest Quidditch player in a century," Ron said appreciatively, savouring the triumph once again, "Did you see the look on that git's face?"

"Yes, Ron," Harry sighed, but America could tell he was finding Ron's enthusiasm amusing, "I did see Malfoy's face, and like the last time you asked me, I thought it was funny."

"But he was _so _annoyed," Ron grinned.

"I can assure you, Weasley," said a familiar drawling voice, "That the only annoyance I felt was at the favouritism that was obviously showed. Just because Potter's the Boy Who Lived doesn't mean he's a good Quidditch player."

"You're right, Malfoy!" America grinned. Malfoy looked absolutely shocked, before his face twisted into a sneer.

"Glad you think so, Jones."

America nodded enthusiastically, continuing, "Harry's a good Quidditch player because he's a good Quidditch player!"

Malfoy glared at him.

"Fame isn't everything, Potter," he said. He smiled unpleasantly, "Why don't you prove that doesn't apply to you?"

"What do you mean, Malfoy?" Harry snapped.

"A wizard's duel, of course. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel, I suppose?"

"Course he has!" Ron cut in angrily, "I'm his second. Who's yours?"

Malfoy sized up his two companions, evidently trying to decide which one was better at snapping necks, "Crabbe. Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room, that's always unlocked."

"See you there," Ron said coldly, watching as the three lumbered back to the Slytherins, grinning.

"Ron!" Harry said anxiously, "What _is _a wizard's duel? And what do you mean, you're my second?"

"Well, a second's there to take over if you die," Ron said conversationally. Harry stared at him in shock.

"Hey, Ron?" America asked eagerly, "Can I be a third?"

* * *

><p>Over at the Slytherin table, the atmosphere was a little less excited.<p>

Romano did not like this school. It was too big and bustling and there were too many people and they all kept trying to talk to him and most of them were _nice. _He was hanging around with Spain and Veneziano – not because he wanted to, obviously, but because they were quite literally forcing him to – and they mostly stayed with the other Hufflepuffs who all insisted on being quite possibly the loveliest people Romano had ever met. They were all…loyal and if they thought they were friends with you then they would stick around, even if you were a Slytherin, and they showed you their secret way into the kitchens and would help you out if you needed it and it was incredibly annoying.

Italia Romano did not like it when people were nice to him, because it made it so much harder to hate them and occasionally he'd feel bad if he snapped and everything got so complicated. Because it wasn't just the Hufflepuff girls, which he would have been fine with because he was totally okay with talking to girls especially if they were cute, but the Hufflepuff boys too, and everything was so much simpler when boys were dicks to you because you could be a dick back without any particularly strong feeling that you weren't meant to.

Thus it was that Romano was not enjoying his time at Hogwarts. And he was not letting anybody else forget it.

"Why do we even have to be here, _bastardo_?" he grumbled to the Slytherin breakfast table at large. Spain and the other Italy that he was stuck with for a brother weren't down for breakfast yet. As such Romano had not been press-ganged into eating with them, which he was not upset about at all. Stupid Spain, always being late and always forgetting about things and being incredibly lazy. Romano was _none _of those things. Course he wasn't.

England sighed. He had been asked this question several times already, whenever Romano got abandoned by Spain for Herbology, and was beginning to get just the teensiest bit tired of it.

"Because it's a magic school, and because for some reason everybody thinks I have to learn magic and so America and Prussia decided to drag the rest of you along. Besides, magic school? Shouldn't you be happy about it? I know everybody else here is having a _ball_."

"Not if it's in England," Romano said. He now had an excuse to direct his anger at the other potato bastard and America though, which meant less focusing on Spain – he was _not _focusing on Spain, dammit! Not at all. And he totally wasn't upset that he couldn't. He didn't even _like _Spain; if he'd had his way then none of Spain's culture would ever have seeped into his people's lives and he would never have been stuck with the bastard. Even at the expense of tomatoes. Romano could live without tomatoes, course he could.

"Oh come on, it's better than any of the other magical schools in the world," England replied. There was an obnoxious laugh from behind them. That really, _really _obnoxious laugh that was even more annoying than Prussia's cackle and belonged to that wine bastard who insisted on never using deodorant and had some strange obsession with onions and flat hats.

"Better even than Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Arthur? I can assure you, _mon lapin_, that we French have better schools than you stuffy English. The aesthetics here are not a patch on the palace at Beauxbatons. And the food! _Mon dieu_, do you wish to die of indigestion or something? Well I cannot blame you, given that the weather here is so obnoxiously awful."

"How many times do I have to tell you, _Francis,_" England said through gritted teeth, "That I am not your bloody rabbit! Just shut up, okay? Hogwarts is superior to Beauxbatons in every way."

"Oh, is _that _what you're getting annoyed over, _mon petit lapin_? A nickname? Is this getting personal?"

"I'm not a fucking rabbit! Do I look one to you? Floppy ears, massive teeth? No? So don't fucking call me one!"

"Well, the teeth, maybe," France said dismissively.

"Well at least my hair doesn't look like a girl," England sneered, "And at least I can say that I've actually won wars and not just profited from the sidelines, frog."

"Oh? I'm sorry? And who was whose colony?"

"Oh for fuck's sake you numpty, the Normans hated the French."

"_Mais oui, _but the Duke of Normandy was a vassal of the French king, _non?_"

"It wasn't like that, and even if it was it doesn't work like that, you berk!"

"Richard the First hated you."

"Richard the First was a bit of a cunt, to be honest."

"He was your king!"

"Yeah. And Robespierre was your leader."

"So was Napolean."

"He was Corsican. I had Churchill."

"Charlemange."

"Duke of Wellington."

"Umm..."

"Nelson, Queen Victoria, Elizabeth the First..."

"Joan of Arc."

"Yes. Teenagers who hallucinate that they have seen an angel are perfect military leaders."

"_Oui._ Until you kill them, of course."

"That was the Catholic Church, you idiot. Am I a fucking Catholic?"

"Actually, at that point, yes."

Romano's head hit the table, hard. Honestly, those two were worse than Spain – who was really annoying. Honestly! Together they had the combined annoyingness of both potato bastards put together and then put with Russia and America and basically everyone else because they were all utter _bastardos._

"Kesesese, Francey-pants, boasting about your military prowess again?" Prussia smirked, "Oh wait, you've never had any."

France stamped his foot, "I had Napoleon, you uncultured swine! _Vive la France!_"

He stormed off to sit beside Canada at the Ravenclaw table, glaring angrily at everybody and speaking very rapid French about '_les Anglais'. _Romano had the feeling France was very lucky that nobody near him spoke anything other than English.

England and Prussia burst out laughing, before sitting down.

"God," England said, "That frog is so annoying."

Romano muttered something about Spain and how stupid he was. England laughed.

"Spain's a bastard too. Armada what? Hah."

Romano nodded, "_Bastardo. _And he's so nice and friendly and always happy and smiling 'aw Romano you're so cute' and 'aw Romano do you want a tomato', happy happy happy. Ugh."

England shuddered, "At least he's not France! France calls me a rabbit. Do I look like a rabbit to you? No! Or a caterpillar! I mean _really _was it my fault that he was such a girly bastard? No it wasn't."

"Spain's so _nice_," Romano said, "And he never cares about anything and he's just so incredibly happy and there's that smile of his and just…ugh! And you can insult him to his face and he'll give you a tomato! Tomatoes are nice though, but still."

"…And he just prances around like he owns the world and everyone knows he doesn't and that the only reason he has so many civil wars is so that he can win one and come on, _I _beat Napoleon and _I _saved his sorry arse during both World Wars and _I _had the biggest empire but nooo, he's still the one with more friends."

"…And then he'll just get angry! And he'll start waving around his battle axe and swinging it over his head and he always acts like I need protecting and I _don't _and the _bastardo _just won't let it go and I am not a kid anymore and I'm not his fucking underling or something he doesn't need to stay hanging around me or anything and –"

"Romano?"

Romano whirled around to see Spain smiling at him – that smile, that really, really, _really _annoying, _amazing _smile and with those green eyes and just _ugh_, why did he always have to turn up at the most annoying moments when he wasn't fucking wanted, Romano never fucking wanted him, he didn't _need _the bastard, he didn't need _anybody_, and would Spain just ever fuck off, it was the twentieth century and what was the point of the stupid fucking little shit anyway?

"S – Spain!" he blurted out. Spain grinned at him, showing off those awful, _lovely _white teeth.

"Do you want to come and sit with me and Veneziano?"

"Um! Soon – but not because I want to or anything, _bastardo, _I'm just doing it because Veneziano will come over and cry if I don't."

Prussia erupted into gales of laughter, spluttering into his porridge.

"What, bastard?" Romano snapped.

"The two – the two of you," Prussia choked out, "You're both just so stupid, with your ranting about Spain and France and –"

He was then overcome with too many giggles to continue.

"I think what Prussia means," said Germany slightly uncomfortably, "Is that you are possibly complaining about them a little too much?"

England and Romano glared at him.

"I'm going to go and sit with Spain," Romano huffed, standing up. England followed him, glaring daggers at Prussia.

"I'm going to go sit with France."

Then the two stalked off. Germany and Prussia looked at them, shaking their heads. Those two really were weird.

* * *

><p><em>I'll admit that I took rather a lot of liberties with history, and possibly made too many history jokes, but I am a nerd about it ;) <em>_**Guest 1: **__hope this is okay! __**Guest 2: **__Thank you very much! I'll say now that updates might begin to get a little slow, but I'm hoping that they'll stay quick, and they'll always be at least weekly._


	9. How To Almost Die

Chapter Eight: How To Almost Die

* * *

><p>"Hey Alfred, wait up!" Prussia jogged towards the blonde nation as he left the Great Hall with his friends. The ginger one turned around and looked at Prussia with contempt. Typical Gryffindor; the rivalry with Slytherin had poisoned him even before he was a term into Hogwarts.<p>

"What do you want?"

"Gilbert!" America said, cutting across his red-headed friend, "Hi!"

"I was wondering what Malfoy was talking to you about. Just in case he was getting you into trouble," Prussia said urgently.

"What? Why do you care whether or not Malfoy gets me into trouble?"

"Because if you don't then it'll be a great way to get the slimy bastard really pissed off, won't it?"

America laughed, "That would be awesome!"

"Hey! I am awesome!" Prussia told him sternly, "Anyway, what was it? What did he want?"

"Oh, just challenging Harry to a wizard's duel," America said airily, "Nothing much."

"Nothing much? That sounds almost as awesome as me! Can I come?"

"Sure!" America grinned.

"What?" America's ginger friend asked, astounded, "No he can't. Malfoy challenged Harry, I'm Harry's second, and Alfred's tagging along because…because he's our friend!"

"Yeah?" Prussia sneered, "And what if I'm Alfred's friend too, huh?"

"We're friends?" America said delightedly, "Oh my God dude, that is totally awesome!"

"Stop with the calling other things awesome!" Prussia shrieked, "I am awesome, okay? Nobody except me and Gilbird can be awesome, and that is final."

"Sheesh dude, okay! Anyway, you can totally come with us," America said, "Then we can kick Malfoy's butt. We're meeting in the trophy room at midnight."

"Awesome!" Prussia grinned, "I'll see you there."

* * *

><p>The day dragged on. Prussia kept looking at the clock, wondering when it would get to the end of the day, and then after that when it would be midnight. Even if midnight technically was the end of the day, but whatever. He knew he probably shouldn't be excited for sneaking out of the dormitory to fight Malfoy, but it was a pretty fun prospect anyway. As he bent over his Potions homework – name four uses of asphodel in potion-making – in the common room, Prussia snuck a sneaky glance at his nemesis in the other corner, resolutely ignoring the other first years and giggling about something to Crabbe and Goyle.<p>

"Hey Arthur," Prussia said, forgetting about Malfoy and scooting just a little closer to England, "What did you say for –"

England snatched his homework off the table, spraying Prussia with specks of black ink, "Gilbert, fuck off! You are not copying my homework and I am not doing it for you."

"Oh come on, it's not like anyone else has it done."

"It's four reasons for one plant, how is that hard?"

"Come on, no one else has got it either, can't you just let me have a little peek?"

"You are talking about the Potions homework, _da?_" Russia said, "I have completed it. It was not that hard."

Both England and Prussia jumped as they heard Russia speak. Neither of them were particularly fond of him.

"Hey Ivan?" England said nonchalantly, "I think I saw Natalia over by the girls' dormitories, she was looking for you."

Russia's face twisted into a look of unabashed horror and his pale eyes began flicking between the first year girls' dormitory and the door.

"I – I think I will be leaving now, _da? _I need to get out some books from the library."

"See you soon," Prussia said sweetly, waving. Russia ran towards the door. England smirked, before turning back to his essay, which was already unnecessarily long. And Prussia knew that he'd finished all his other homework and was ahead in every class except flying. It wasn't fair; England already knew enough first year magic, he just needed to learn the hard stuff. So why was he so cheap with letting Prussia – or Romano or Germany or Austria (Belarus and Russia kept to themselves) – copy his essays? Not that anybody except Prussia asked for them.

"Soo…" Prussia began.

"No."

"Pleeeease?"

"No means no, Prussia."

"Actually, that's '_nein', _but I get your point."

"No you don't, because you're still trying to copy off me."

"Oh come on, you're almost as stingy with your homework as Austria is with everything."

"I am not cheap!" Austria protested. He had been sitting at the table beside Prussia and England, watching the debacle with Russia and saying nothing.

"Yes you are," Prussia said, "But that doesn't matter now. We-est?"

"_Nein, Prueßen_, do your own work."

Prussia glared at him, turned back to his own, shamefully short, Potions essay, and cursed midnight for being so slow.

When ten-to-midnight finally rolled around Prussia was dozing in an armchair by the fire, which was by now just a pile of embers burning with a faint greenish light. He had set his alarm clock for ten minutes earlier, but it had been working with less and less efficiency as the magic around Hogwarts seeped into its circuits. Prussia shrugged and hastily turned it off as a random house elf disapparated hurriedly. He looked around to check that there was nobody watching and set off towards the door. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, but Prussia suspected that that was just because he had a clock that actually worked.

It was kind of cool, being one of only a quarter of the people in the school who knew how to get into a place. And it was only the Gryffindors that were the other house to have a password-protected entrance to their common room. The Hufflepuffs didn't even have a protection mechanism at all, you just needed to know which barrel to tap; no wonder Romano had insisted on being in Slytherin. Which was the most awesome house in all of Hogwarts, of course.

"Prussia? What are you doing?"

Prussia cursed himself for not putting the alarm under his head. In his defence, it was really uncomfortable to sleep on top of a block of plastic with really sharp corners. It dug into your skull.

"Nothing," he said, crossing his fingers behind his back as he did so. Austria looked at him – not frowning, not glaring at Prussia, just with that look that told Prussia he was the most idiotic creature on the planet.

"Yes, sneaking out of the common room when it's almost midnight is definitely nothing."

"I'm hungry!" Prussia said defensively, "I was going to go the kitchens and get something to eat."

"It must be wonderful to be able to predict when you'll need food so that you can set an alarm. Something we mere mortals can only dream of."

"Okay, fine, I'm not going to the kitchens. Happy now?"

"No. Where are you going?"

"Nowhere."

"You'll have to tell me where that is, because I've never managed to find it."

"Give it a rest, Roderich!" Prussia hissed, "I'm just slipping out, where's the harm in that?"

"I want to know where you're going. You could get lost."

"Aww, does ickle Roddy care about what happens to me?"

"No!" Austria flushed bright red, "But if you get lost your brother will be incredibly annoyed with me."

Prussia thought about it for a minute. Austria was a stuck-up aristocratic priss-pants, but he wasn't a grass.

"I'm going to the trophy room. Malfoy's challenged Harry to a duel and America said I could come."

Austria frowned, "Prussia, what are you talking about? Malfoy's upstairs asleep."

"No he isn't, he can't be. You must just have not looked close enough, it's probably a load of pillows or something."

"Prussia, I'm not making this up and I'm not mistaken! Malfoy is up there, sleeping, and from the way he was giggling to Crabbe and Goyle before he turned in for the night, he's very pleased about something."

Prussia looked at Austria in horror. He wasn't lying. Maybe that was why Prussia had been alone – except for annoying snooty pianists – in the common room. And then it hit him.

"That _arschloch_! I need to go find the others. Um…thanks!"

Austria just rolled his eyes and padded upstairs to bed. Prussia leapt through the doorway, sprinting towards the trophy room. His feet echoed around the corridors as he pounded up the staircases, but he didn't care. Malfoy had set up the others and Prussia was going to make sure he saved their sorry arses. He was _awesome. _

Paintings whipped past him as he ran, faster and faster. Prussia had no idea why he was doing this, but he suspected it had something to do with Malfoy standing to gain everything if Harry, Ron and America got detention or expelled or something like that. And Prussia did not like Malfoy; he was a slimy, sneaky, underhand little bastard who liked tormenting others just a little too much and had some sort of superiority complex. It contrasted nicely with the inferiority one Prussia was convinced Romano had, but it was still really, really annoying.

Prussia was just thinking how nice it would be to pound Malfoy's smirking face into oblivion when he crashed into somebody. His heart sank. Regardless of the fact that he was out of bed after hours, he was miles from the Slytherin dormitories and was travelling in completely the wrong direction to make up any viable excuse.

"Gilbert?" said an amused voice.

Prussia tilted his head back to see a familiar set of green eyes staring at him out of the gloom.

"Oh," he spat a ball of spit towards a painting of some nuns in hairnets, who twittered irritably at him, "It's you."

"It is indeed. What are you doing here? I hope you realise that it's now midnight."

"I know – what – bloody time – it is," Prussia panted. His sprint of legendary proportions was now catching up on him, a sharp pain searing through his side.

"Good," Hungary replied, "Then you can tell me what you're doing here."

"Malfoy," Prussia managed to say, "He set up America and his friends, they're in the trophy room and he's probably told Filch or something to be around there, I was going to tell them."

"You, doing something for somebody else? Heaven forbid."

"I'm not actually as selfish as you think I am, you know. And can you let me past, I need to go."

Hungary thought for a minute, before pulling Prussia to his feet.

"I'll come with you," she said, "If it annoys Filch I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Prussia asked with what he hoped was a sleazy grin. Hungary slapped him around the head.

"One, shut up. Two, you look eleven."

"Oh. Yeah."

They raced towards the trophy room, Hungary dragging Prussia behind a statue as Mrs Norris padded past them, amber eyes swivelling towards the squat wizard with the bulbous nose behind which the two were crouching. Prussia shuffled a little closer to Hungary, the two standing back to back and barely breathing as Mrs Norris stopped and sniffed the air. Then she padded off, tail swishing imperiously.

The trophy room came into view, and Prussia spotted a golden head shining in the candlelight. He sprinted towards America, grabbing his shoulder and swinging the younger country around.

"America," he wheezed, "Malfoy – set you up – called Filch – you need to leave."

They heard footsteps from the corridor outside, accompanied by Filch murmuring creepily to his cat, and looked at each other. Prussia glanced at Hungary, but then all thoughts of her covering for them vanished in favour of getting the hell out of there.

"Run," he hissed, grabbing America's hand and yanking him around the corner. The kids with America followed, Harry and the ginger and the plump kid who fell off his broom and the girl with the bushy hair, all piling into each other five metres away from the caretaker.

"This way!" Harry mouthed, setting off as silently as possible down the corridor. There was a squeak from behind them, the sound of slippers sliding across a marble floor and then a crash as a pudgy body flew into a suit of armour. Prussia winced as the noise grated through the castle. He could practically see Filch now, the wizened old squib locking onto any sign of students out of bed like a hunting dog sniffing out a scent.

"RUN!" Prussia yelled, grabbing the nearest arm and dragging the unfortunate soul down the corridor. Hurtling around corners and ripping through tapestries, the five first years expended as much energy as they would in a month trying to get away from Filch. Eventually they came to a dead end, the sound of Peeves's cackling guiding Filch right towards them. Prussia cursed, kicking the thick wood.

"Out of the way, out of the way," muttered the girl with busy hair, pulling out her wand and pointing it at the door, "_Alohamora."_

There was a click and the door swung open and they all piled through, gasping with relief. Filch's arguing with Peeves was hilariously audible through the door.

"He thinks this door is locked, I think we'll be okay," Prussia told the others in a whisper, "Hey, you, fat kid, get off. _What?_"

And then Prussia turned around and saw what it was that the little Gryffindor had been trying to tell him about for the past five minutes. Looming in front of them was an enormous, three-headed dog, eyes glinting menacingly at them in the gloom. Saliva dripped from its jaws in great wet ribbons and pooled on the floor. Prussia looked down and saw that it was standing on a trapdoor, but he barely registered the information as terror took over his brain.

He fumbled for the doorknob – Filch could be waiting outside to pounce for all he knew, but he did not care. Detention was better than death-by-hungry-monster any day; even if Prussia knew he'd come back, it would not be a particularly pleasant experience when dying.

The corridor outside was empty, Filch presumably having left to sniff them out somewhere else, and it was only when he was alone with the candlelight and the panicked breaths of his acquaintances that Prussia realised he had just run out of the forbidden third-floor corridor on the right-hand side. He bit his lip, wondering. Obviously they weren't allowed to enter because of what was inside, but it had been standing on a trapdoor and that meant the…_thing_ was protecting something important.

"Gilbert?" America's startled voice snapped Prussia out of his reverie, "What the hell are you doing, get back to your common room! Tell me what Malfoy's face looks like, okay?"

Prussia cackled, "Sure. See you tomorrow, Alfred!"

He ran back to the common room, not trusting Mrs Norris – or worse, Filch himself – to slink out from behind some tapestry and report him. Finally, the wall hiding the Slytherin dormitories came into view and Prussia was able to whisper the password – _Potestas – _and sink into his bed. He snuck a glance over to the bed beside him and saw Austria stir, muttering something about Hungary and Italy and pasta. His glasses were still on his face and starting to slip down his nose.

Prussia laughed softly to himself, taking off Austria's glasses and putting them gently on the other boy's bedside table. It was strange, using the word 'boy' to refer to a country older than he was, but that was what Austria looked like – so young, so naïve. Prussia supposed that was what he looked like too. He shook away such boring philosophical thoughts – he left that to Greece – and changed into his pyjamas. One of the house elves had left a hot water bottle in his bed, and the sheets were nicely warmed through.

As he slept, Prussia dreamed about three-headed dogs and trapdoors and forbidden corridors and Harry Potter and wondered what on Earth it all meant.

* * *

><p><em>Potestas = power in Latin. This chapter shook me out of a little slump I went through at the beginning – I wrote the actual text in two goes, which I hardly ever do – which I'm grateful for. Slightly worrying that I'm on this by Chapter Eight, but I think I'll get to at least twenty chapters (I hope!). I have a quick question for all you absolutely wonderful reviewers; I've pretty much decided that when it comes to the Mirror or Erised, England will be the one to find out about it with Harry, but I'm still a little unsure as to what he'd see. I might try and combine a sort of FACE family thing with British Empire glory, but I'm not sure yet. Also, if you have any ideas as to what America or Prussia would see (or even Norway and Hungary, whoop for having found out my main characters) then that would be awesome too, because I'm completely stumped. Hope you enjoy, anyway ;)<em>


	10. How To Uncover a Mystery

Chapter Nine: How To Uncover a Mystery

* * *

><p>The next morning at breakfast, America was sleeping with his head in his empty bowl. He'd fallen asleep fully clothed as soon as they'd reached the Gryffindor tower, and it had taken Harry, Ron, Poland, Denmark, Romania and Seamus to drag him out of bed and into the bathroom, where he'd promptly resumed sleeping. In the end they'd just let Dean's alarm clock go off non-stop beside his ear until he was jerked out of it, swearing angrily about hamburgers, Canada, and red-white-and-blue maple leaves.<p>

Once they had reached the Great Hall, America was a bit miffed to see Malfoy looked fresh and energetic, triumphant at his undoubtedly successful attempt to boot Harry – and whoever was around as collateral damage – out of Hogwarts. Whatever resentment America was feeling at the other's full night's sleep vanished, however, at the look of complete and utter horror that crossed Malfoy's face when he saw them lumber towards the Gryffindor table, yawning, but still very much out of trouble. America gave him a little wave and a smirk.

He saw Prussia being glared at disapprovingly by Austria for yawning with his mouth open and then plopping wetly into a puddle of milk that was almost the exact same colour as his hair. He seemed just as tired as America after last night's events. America had no idea why Prussia had bothered to run all that way, risking getting into trouble himself – not that the awesome Prussia would care about that, of course – just to save a couple of humans and a country with whom he had a barely non-existent relationship. Maybe it was just that in this case, the enemy of Prussia's enemy was his friend.

Which was cool, because America was definitely in the market for new friends among his own kind. Just because people didn't appreciate hamburgers, and Europeans were way too quiet anyway. Seriously.

Hermione Granger had refused to talk to any of them since the escapade, which didn't bother Harry, Ron and America in the slightest. America didn't think she deserved her usual pastime, which was to sit in a corner of the common room surrounded by mountains of books, but he had to admit that she was a little annoying. The girl needed to lighten up a bit, to learn to go with the flow. Like he did! This strategy did occasionally lead to flunking all of your classes except flying which technically wasn't a class, but Hermione was way smarter than he was even without her extortionate and unnecessary amount of extra study.

All in all, Hermione had come out of their adventure with a considerable sense of annoyance, almost all of which was directed at the three boys she was forced to share classes with. Neville, on the other hand, had been utterly terrified since the encounter with the massive dog, shrinking close to America whenever something startled him. It had only been one morning, and though he was trying not to show it, America was starting to get a little bit annoyed.

"Neville," he said, as Neville clutched his arm yet again, this time in response to an owl hooting louder than normal, "There's nothing to be nervous about, seriously."

"B-but w-what if t-they find out that w-we w-were out of bed o-out of hours?"

"Trust me, that'll never happen. Dude, Gilbert said Elizave – I mean, Miss Héderváry, would cover for us if Filch started sniffing again, and he never caught our faces. There's no need to be so worried."

"I-I know, i-it's just…" Neville trailed off and muttered something unintelligible about Malfoy. America sighed, patting Neville on the arm with what he hoped was a comforting gesture. From the pained look on Neville's face, it was more like a punch. Sometimes super strength was a burden.

"Listen, Neville, you're worth about a hundred of Malfoy, seriously. Don't beat yourself up about anything he says, okay? He's just some slimy son-of-a-bitch who needs to calm down about this magic stuff. He isn't worth your time."

Neville nodded listlessly, staring into his cereal.

"I mean it, Neville!" America said a little more forcefully, "Don't let Malfoy get you down. You understand me?"

"Yeah," Harry said, having cottoned on to what America was trying to do, "The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor, didn't it? And where's Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin."

"Actually, we Slytherins have a very awesome standard of personal hygiene," a familiarly accented voice said on its way to the Slytherin table. America laughed.

"I know, Gilbert, but still, Gryffindor wins any day."

"Nah," Prussia said, "We're too awesome for that. You're all just puny little _dummkopfs_ compared to the awesome me."

"Prussia!" America hissed, "We're trying to make Neville feel _better_."

"Oh," Prussia said uncomfortably, "Uh…you're awesome too, fat kid!"

"Thanks," Neville muttered weakly, his face flushing pink. Prussia hurried off to the Slytherin table, sitting down beside Germany with a decidedly grateful look on his face. America rolled his eyes and turned back to Neville, ready to continue his heroic pep talk. He didn't think assurances that from Prussia that was basically the best compliment he'd ever given would be helpful here.

"Anyway, Neville, what was I saying? Oh yeah! You're awesome, Malfoy can…he can…"

"And what, exactly, can I do, Jones?"

"Fuck off!" America said pleasantly, swivelling on the bench to look up at the pale, pointed face of Draco Malfoy, "That would be lovely!"

Malfoy sneered, though there was bitter disappointment in his eyes, "Better enjoy your breakfast, Jones. It'll be one of your last here, just you wait. I'll get you in the end."

He stalked off, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like two incredibly dense bodyguards.

"Looking forward to it!" America yelled at Malfoy's back, smirking.

"I wouldn't antagonise Malfoy, if I were you."

"Seriously?" America shrieked, "What is this, a train station? Why does everybody keep coming over to talk to me today?"

"I'd say it was because I enjoy your company," England said drily, "But that would be a lie. Sorry."

America pouted, "Aw, Arthur, you're so mean to me. What did I ever do to deserve this, honestly?"

"Oh so much," England sighed, "Anyway, I'm afraid being around you is lowering my IQ considerably, so I'll just pass on the message; Harry, Professor McGonagall says to open the letter first, or something. I've no idea what it means, but if you have secret codes with teachers that's just incredibly weird."

"Oh. Um…thanks, I guess?" Harry said, looking at America with a bemused expression. The other boy shrugged.

"I'll be off then," England said, "And Alfred –"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to get yourself into too many nightly escapades. Elizaveta – Miss Héderváry, that is – told me that you were out of bed out of hours last night. I no longer have any say on what you do, but _try _not to get yourself expelled. It means so much more paperwork for me."

America rolled his eyes, "Whatever. Bye, Artie!"

England glared at him, before hurrying over to where Prussia and Germany were sitting with only a passing, "It's _Arthur, _git," to say goodbye. America was almost hurt.

He was snapped out of it by a large owl swooping into the Great Hall and drawing the attention of everybody in the room, his included. It was bobbing up and down in midair, a very oddly shaped package clasped in its beak. To everybody's surprise, it landed in front of Harry, dragging its delivery along the Gryffindor table and knocking over several milk jugs. Harry stared at it in shock, no doubt wondering what on Earth it was.

"Open it Harry!" Ron urged, "Go on!"

"Wait!" America cut in, "Didn't Arthur say Professor McGonagall told him to tell you to open the letter first?"

"Oh forget about whatever Kirkland says," Ron said impatiently, "Just open it Harry!"

"I think maybe Alfred's right…" Harry said slowly, pulling the folded piece of parchment from the parcel, with was very long and very thin in shape. He opened it up and began to read.

"What does it say?" America asked.

"You were right, Alfred!" Harry whispered excitedly, "It…come on, let's go outside and I'll tell you then."

The three got up, saying a hurried goodbye to a still very forlorn Neville and racing out of the Great Hall. Once they got to the hourglasses that held all the house points, Harry stopped and faced Ron and America.

"It's my broomstick!" he hissed, "That's why I wasn't allowed to open it at the breakfast table; Professor McGonagall said I have to take upstairs to the dormitory."

"What type is it?" Ron asked; he looked possible more excited than Harry.

"A Nimbus Two Thousand," Harry said.

"A Nimbus Two Thousand?" Ron moaned enviously, "I've never even _touched _one."

A cough from across the Entrance Hall made them stop and turn around hurriedly. America jumped in front of the broomstick, just in case. He realised halfway through how incredibly shifty it made them look, but by then it was too late to stop.

"That's a broomstick," Malfoy's voice rang through the hall, a mixture of jealousy and spite, "You'll be for it now, Potter, first years aren't allowed broomsticks."

Crabbe and Goyle marched across towards the three Gryffindors, barring the way up the staircase. America couldn't resist rubbing it in his face.

"It's not just a broomstick," he said smugly, "It's a Nimbus Two Thousand."

Truth be told, he had no idea what was so great about any sort of Nimbus, but from Ron's reaction when he heard the type of broom America knew it must be a good thing.

"What did you say you've got at home again, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" Ron added, "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as a Nimbus."

"What would you know, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the handle," Malfoy snapped angrily, "I suppose you and your brothers have to save up, twig by twig. And you've probably never even seen a broomstick, Jones, a mudblood like you."

Before either Ron or America could do or say anything, Norway appeared beside Malfoy, as silent and creepy as a ghost.

"Not arguing, are we boys?" he asked in that monotone of his, face expressionless.

"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor Thomassen," Malfoy said quickly, never one to miss a chance to get his arch-nemesis in trouble.

"Yes, that would be right," Norway replied. The look of utter consternation on Malfoy's face was priceless, "Professor McGonagall did say something about special circumstances. What model is it, Potter?"

"Oh, uh, a Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," Harry said, doing a remarkably good job of keeping a straight face. America and Ron could only dream of a countenance as stern as Norway's.

"And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that he has it," America smirked. Malfoy switched from shock to abject horror, glaring at America in rage. The latter could have sworn he saw a flicker of amusement flash across Norway's face, but put that down to hallucinations brought on by over-amusement.

"Is that so?" Norway said smoothly, "Well off to your dormitory, boys, you don't want to advertise it. As for you – Malfoy, is it? – try not to start fights in the corridors, won't you? I hate having to supervise detentions."

And then he was gone, moving towards the Great Hall just as Harry, Ron and America ran in the opposite direction and up to the Gryffindor common room, trying their best to smother their laughter.

"Can't believe he doesn't realise how he got me it," Harry chuckled, "I mean, if he hadn't stolen Neville's remembrall I wouldn't even be on the team…"

"So I suppose you think that's a reward for breaking rules?" came an angry voice from behind them. They turned to see Hermione, wearing a very peeved expression.

"I thought you weren't speaking to us?" America asked, only trying – honestly! – to ascertain the facts.

"It's been lovely," Ron added. Hermione glared at him before stomping off.

"You shouldn't antagonise her like that," America said disapprovingly, "It's just mean."

"So what?" Ron muttered, "She's a bossy know-it-all."

"Still, it's mean."

"Whatever."

The entire day was torture, even for America. He knew that Harry was longing to race upstairs and unwrap his broomstick and so was he. Potions was especially hard – having Snape making snide remarks every time he messed up and England sighing every time he tried to ask a question just compounded the frustration America was feeling at not being able to see Harry's broom. Finally, the day drew to a close and the three friends raced upstairs towards the dormitory, ready to see the Nimbus Two Thousand in all its glory.

America knew next to nothing about brooms, except the ones that were used for cleaning, but even he knew that this was a quality broomstick. It rolled softly out of the paper and plopped onto Harry's four-poster bed, gleaming in the candlelight. The handle was made of smooth, shining mahogany and broadened into a tail of short, straight twigs. Near the top the wood was engraved with a thin, curling golden hand – Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Wow," Ron breathed. America nodded in agreement, speechless. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen and he felt an inescapable desire to fly on it. Soaring through the air, just you and the wind – it sounded absolutely wonderful.

"Hey Harry?" he asked uncertainly, "Can I – when you've had a go and stuff, obviously – can I have a go on it?"

"Of course!" Harry grinned in response, "Hey, do you want to come down to the Quidditch pitch with me tonight? Oliver Wood's going to teach me Quidditch, and you could come learn the rules at least with me if you wanted to."

"Sure!" America said, whooping, "That sounds awesome! Ron, you coming?"

"No, I can't," Ron replied, "I've got to look up vampires for Quirrell, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, we'll fill you in!"

A little later, Harry and America set off to the Quidditch pitch. On their way, they talked about various things – Malfoy and Snape and that three-headed dog – but as they were passing by an empty classroom they heard whispering from the other side of the door. America grabbed Harry and dragged him outside.

"_There are others_," a harsh, rasping voice was saying, _"Not just the boy. Some far older than he is, who had lived far longer than the one who made the stone. They are tied to this land and its people in a way even I do not understand." _

"Master," said another voice, low and steady, "What do you mean? I know of no such species."

"_You would not," _the other voice croaked. It was high and cold and sent shivers down America's spine, _"They are not some animals left to rot in folklore. These…they are different. They have not even needed to crack the secret of immortality, it was granted to them. Forced upon them, unworthy base creatures as they are. I am the one who should wield such power." _

"Of course, Master, of course. But…what should I do with these…creatures, as you call them?"

"_Bring them to me, my faithful servant. You have not failed me yet. There is one…his connection to me is the strongest. He was the land beneath my feet when I walked to my birthplace, where I spent my formative years. And another, one who should not even exist. Perhaps his power will be easiest to take. You will bring them to me." _

"Yes, Master, I will, of course I will."

There was movement from inside the room, as though somebody was standing up. America and Harry bolted, sprinting straight towards the castle grounds, breathing fast. Inside both of their minds was the question of who on Earth it had been in there, and who the high voice had meant when it talked about immortal creatures. America had the awful feeling that he knew just what the answer to that question was and did not like the sensation one bit.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you so much to everybody replied; I think I have a fairly good idea of what I'm going to do for the Mirror. Sorry about using so many passages from the book in this, by the way, they just sort of ended up being what I'd have written anyway. But much worse, obviously. I forgot to reply to the reviews from the last chapter, and I know you don't want massive ANs, but I want to reply to all of them and if I just stick them in the bottom here those of you who don't want to read them don't have to. <em>

_**Guest101: **__Yay, a username! A 'grass' is just slang (English, I think) for somebody who tells tales. Thanks for all the ideas :) (also FrUK and Spamano are the best ships ever!) __**Berlin: **__What Austria was dreaming depends on what you ship :P Thanks for the reviews :) __**Crossover Junkie: **__Thank you very much! Your idea for Norway was particularly awesome __**Guest: **__FRUK AND SPAMANO ARE AWESOME! Thank you very much!_


End file.
